


The Adventures of Mr and Mrs Holmes

by headless_nic



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 54
Words: 147,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17291507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_nic/pseuds/headless_nic
Summary: Sequel to: A Case of High StakesAfter his more or less 'accidental' marriage, life goes on for Sherlock Holmes and he and his wife have to find a way to organise their new situation in life, while there are also more cases to be solved, of course.





	1. The worst of days - Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Marrying Holmes off, was something that literally just happened as I wrote 'A Case of High Stakes'. - Unplanned and unexpected even for me. Okay, I had planned for them to marry, but Harriet was also supposed to die at the end of it - I just couldn't bring myself to kill her off, so I chickened out, I admit to it. Shame on me!
> 
> So these now are criminal cases Holmes and his wife solve mainly together, sometimes separately and on occasion with the one or other character. 
> 
> It is AU at the moment but will eventually tie in with canon when, and I'm not giving away too much here, Holmes forbids Watson to ever write about him as a married man much later on in the story.
> 
> On a sideline, these stories also tie in with my stories about Sherlock as a child and the ones set during his hiatus

The worst of days - Part One

Harriet:

It was still an unfamiliar feeling to wake up next to another person, but alas, it was not an unpleasant one. On the contrary, it felt comfortable and safe. Carefully I turned around in my husbands loving arms. He was lying next to me, sleeping peacefully, one arm and a leg wrapped around me as if he wanted to keep me from falling off his narrow single bed, which we shared, cosily snuggled up to one another. Trying to slip out of his protective grasp to get out of bed in quest of following the call of nature, I woke him up unintentionally.

“You are awake, already?” he yawned, opening his eyes a fraction and seeing it was still dark outside tightening his grip on me.

“And where do you think you are going at this time of night?” he added playfully.

“As observant as ever,” I quipped, trying to wriggle out from underneath him.

“You have not answered my question.” He remarked, snuggling even deeper into the embrace.

“Let me put it this way,” I replied, “if you do not let me get up right now, this bed will become rather uncomfortable to sleep in.”

“I will let you go then – but under one condition: That you'll come back as soon as you are done and do me,” he remarked with seductive naughtiness. 

“Well, perhaps...” I teased, lighting the candle and slipping into his dressing gown to scurry across the corridor.

Casting a glance at the clock in the hallway I saw it was still very early indeed and no-one in the house was stirring yet – and would not do so for another couple of hours. The darkness of the narrow passage halfway down the stairs, almost made me stumble over the threshold of the loo, despite the flickering light in my hand and thus I added a bruised toe to my other injuries. Rolling my eyes in exasperation at my own clumsiness, I finished my business and returned to bed and into the waiting arms of Sherlock Holmes.

“A week ago I have met you for the very first time...” he mused, smiling and pulling me back into his embrace. “And the very first time I saw you, I got to hold you in my arms. I have to admit, it felt astonishingly good. - Though I have to admit, not in my wildest dreams would I have thought then, that only a week later I would have you in bed with me, holding you close and calling you my wife.”

“No, me neither,” I admitted, running my fingers through his hair, all tousled where it normally was so well groomed and when I kissed his lips I could feel the stubble on his chin.

“But right now, I would not, for the world, be anywhere else,” I continued.

He did not reply, but instead pulled me even closer once more wrapping himself around me as his kisses became more ardent.

“It is still early,” he eventually mumbled, “we should sleep for another hour or two. I fear I might have a long day ahead of me.”

From the way his voice trailed off I could hear he was about to fall asleep again.

“What are you up to then?” I inquired lazily, drowsing off myself.

His answer was but an incoherent mumble, and truth be told at that moment I did not really care. I could just as well ask him again later when we've gotten up.

xxx

When we did so, the sun had risen to a cold and foggy morning, the streets already filled with people, most of them hastening to work, trying to catch a bus or walking towards the underground. Amongst the hubbub of the many clerks and officers, the newsagents and postmen were making their first round and the grocers dragged their barrows through the crowds, pushing aside the one or other inattentive pedestrian in order to deliver their goods to the housewives and housekeepers. The large bay window of the living room afforded a panoramic view of almost all of the upper third of Baker Street and I enjoyed watching the hustle and bustle so unlike the quiet street I lived in. Thus I busied myself glancing curiously at this yet unknown sight, waiting for our breakfast to be served, while Sherlock smoked his before breakfast pipe, lounging in his easy chair, his eyes fixed on me contemplatively as I watched the world outside.

“So, what are you up to today, Sherlock?” I asked, only for the answer to be interrupted by the arrival of his motherly landlady bringing up our meal.

“Here you are, Mrs Holmes, Mr Holmes.” Her shared happiness evident on her kind face. I could not help the feeling that with her I had acquired a kind of well-meaning mother in law – though unsure whether I had any actual in-laws of any kind, I had not yet had come around to ask my husband on that point.

The maid that had followed her with a second tray stared at me in astonishment, presumably wondering when I had arrived without her noticing, to now sit at the breakfast table. Having had her afternoon off the night before she had neither seen me arrive nor had she heard the discussion between Mrs Hudson and my spouse and the last she knew about me, was that I was the maiden sister of one of my husband's clients. From her overall confusion it was obvious that she had also missed Mrs Hudson's address towards me and so she curtsied with a shy smile: “Good morning, Sir. Miss.”

Even as the door closed behind the two women, I could hear Mrs Hudson explain the situation and I would have liked to see the girls face at the revelation.

“I dare say, we will confuse and astonish several people over the next few weeks...” Sherlock mused, pouring our tea and handing me my cup.

“Yes, I reckon you have a point there, our wedding was rather on short notice,” I grinned and then, trying for the third time I asked: “So, what are you up to? You said you would be busy.”

“I gave Watson my word to find the person responsible for his wives and their son's tragic accident.”

He looked somewhat troubled, the compassion for his friend evident in his expressive grey eyes.

“I did not realise the doctor has children. How old is the boy?”

“He had a son – Henry was his name. He still must have been a baby. The little one died in an accident and Mrs Watson was paralysed. She has been bound to a wheelchair ever since.”

“Good God! I am so sorry.” Though I had never met the woman or the child in my life, never even knew they existed, I felt truly sorry for Doctor Watson. But I was now also quite confused. 

“When did it happen? Was it recent?”

“About eighteen months ago.”

“What happened to Doctor Watson's wife? You said she was paralysed, how is she now? Is she alive?”

“She has removed to the seaside last November as her health required a milder climate and better air as is to be had in winter in London and she has stayed there ever since. Her health is still not recovered completely as I understand it. That is also why Watson is currently residing here and not in his family home.”

Well, that explained this fairly unusual situation.

“And you are sure you can still figure out what has happened so long ago?”

“No, but at least I will try. I never knew about the child either, till last week when Hopkins mentioned it over a pint. Had I known, I would have offered my services months ago. The death of the little one changed my perception of their situation. They need to come to terms with what has happened and I am resolved to give them every possible help I have to offer.”

“And Doctor Watson? Does he agree with you? You must be aware that you will open a lot of wounds that in all likeliness have only just begun to heal. It would be cruel if you put them through all of this pain again, raising their hopes and then might have to leave them bleeding once more without a chance of providing relief after all.”

“I am aware of that, Harriet. But as a doctor, you are of course aware of the practice of again breaking a once broken leg that has been grown together crookedly in order to reset it and helping the patient to at last make use of it after all. I know I might fail, but at least there is a chance. And with all of this said, I hope that even just showing we care might ease their pain.”

Taking his hand I nodded in agreement. He was right, he at least had to try. And if anyone had a chance to succeed, it was surely Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Looking at the empty chair I asked: “But where is the doctor anyway? I hope he does not stay away because of me.”

“He was called to an emergency last night and left the house when I went to bed. I see he has returned, but I have no idea when that was. He might sleep in a bit, it's still not very late and he might have left a notice with the doctor he shares a practice with. - We should have stayed in bed a bit longer, too, perhaps.”

Seeing the doctors coat and hat hanging on the peg beside the door I looked at the clock and realised that it was not half eight yet. And then, as if to relief our minds from wondering about his whereabouts, the door opened and in came Doctor Watson, looking tired – and surprised.

“Oh, good morning, I had not thought of finding you up so early.” he greeted in his warm-hearted manner.

“Why not?” his friend asked, looking puzzled. “You know I never keep regular hours.”

“Oh, never mind.” the doctor grinned, “I just had thought you would take the opportunity to sleep in. - How are you, madam? You seem rested and quite well, considering yesterdays strains.”

“I am, thank you.” I handed him a cup of tea, pushing the milk and sugar towards him across the table.

“At any rate, Watson, I will redeem my promise to you and set to work straight after breakfast.”

My husband's words sounded much as if he were doing some business in the city and were presumably harsher than he intended and realising it, he added in a softer tone: “I will do everything, to help you heal your and your wives wounds.”

A pained expression had appeared on the good man's comely face, but he was also deeply moved, not having expected so much compassion and understanding from his usually so austere friend. Sometimes men were weird creatures, indeed. 

“Are you sure there still is something to find out?”

“At this moment I cannot tell, Watson. I will meet with Hopkins later and view the official records and go from there. Tonight I will be able to tell you more. And at any rate, a change of perspective might be all that is needed. How often did we solve a case with exactly the same information the police had had, just by changing the point of view? But I did not want to start the investigation behind your back, old friend.”

“Thank you, Holmes.” the doctor spoke, his voice oddly distant and his eyes concentrating on his hand stirring his tea. “I greatly appreciate it.”

And as he looked up finally, a sad but hopeful smile played around his lips.

“Have you written to your wife, yet?”

“Yes. She asks to see you, actually. - If it is not too much for you to go down to Torquay.”

“Nonsense! You can write to her that I'll come down tomorrow.”

Looking at me once again the doctor looked concerned and I assured him that it was no bother for me either to part with my husband for a day or two as I myself had a lot of things to do and sort out.

xxx

“So, since you now are informed about my plans for today and tomorrow, might I enquire after yours?” Sherlock asked as he prepared himself for the day, while the doctor had already left as soon as he had finished his breakfast – which he had eaten in a hurry, to return to his patient's bedside.

“I thought I might go to Chiswick to take care of my correspondence.”

“Could that wait till tomorrow?”

“Is there anything you want me to do?”

“Yes. - Rest.” he answered cheekily. “Or I'll never hear the end of it, once your mother finds out.”

“As if writing letters is such a chore, Sherlock.” I laughed. 

“No, but I imagine you might need to fetch the odd thing as well. And if you wait till tomorrow, you could take the new page boy along and show him around, while he, in turn, can give you a hand in carrying whatever needs to be carried. - Remember, you have promised your friend to pick up the pram as well. - We cannot keep it here. And I presume after last week, you'll need to get some new clothes as well, don't you?”

“Yes, the page boy would come in handy, yes I need to pick up the perambulator and yes, I also will need to purchase some new clothes,” I admitted. “- As my at any rate sparse wardrobe was diminished even further last week. - I managed to ruin three dresses. - Though not without help.”

“I hope that is no weekly occurrence – ruining three dresses...” he teased, bending down to kiss me. “Or I'll be a poor man before long.”

“Well, you had your hands in ruining one when you cut open the waist with a knife because you could not get me out of that dress quick enough.” 

“Hm, that will be a problem then, I presume. Because I will never get you out of any dress quick enough for my taste. Why does women's clothing need to be so very impractical for an impatient husband?”

“Sherlock!” I wagged my finger at him, laughing. Once more his boyish smile had lit up his face, before turning serious again.

“So, will you rest today?”

“All right, I'll wait till tomorrow and bring my letters here to answer them.”

“Good. - By the way, when will your maid be back from her holidays?”

“Martha will be back in a week and a half.”

“Perfect. That leaves us some time to find a long-term solution to our living arrangements. Though at any rate, Mrs Hudson is more than happy to have you here. - Though perhaps we might need a wider bed in the long run… - And now I have to go, or I'll be late for my appointment.”

He glanced at his watch, kissed me quickly and was out of the door.

xxx

As soon as he had closed the front door behind him and I could see him climb into a Hansom, I limped downstairs in the hopes of being able to make myself useful, not feeling to lie down again just yet. Quickly and without difficulty I managed to locate the kitchen as on the stove a kettle whistled, indicating that the water within was boiling. Taking the potholder from its peg, I poured the water into the prepared teapot standing on the polished kitchen table, two mugs beside it, waiting for the two other women's return, as I guessed correctly that both currently were upstairs to tidy the bedrooms.. - A thought that made me blush slightly. 

Walking out of the back door to have a look around, I found one lonely plane tree, a disused outhouse and little else. In all my years in London, I still had not become accustomed to the bleakness of a London backyard.

“Why do these yards always have to be so desolate?” I sighed, speaking to myself and thinking of my own garden with its many flowers, bushes, trees and the birds, butterflies and squirrels during the warmer months, as well as the occasional hedgehog, deciding that in the spring I would get to work of making this brown patch of trampled earth more habitable – if I was allowed to. 

From the other side of the fence, a small voice remarked: “I have some pretty flowers growing in a patch over there in summer.” - Not without pride I noticed.

Between two wider spaced boards I could make out a pair of cornflower blue eyes, a shock of dull blond hair and a button nose, the mouth covered by the little girl's hand as she had realised she had also spoken aloud.

“Hello there. Who are you then? I am Mrs Holmes. “ I introduced myself – the name and address still unfamiliar even to myself.

“Jessy.” Was her bashful reply.

“It is very nice to meet you, Jessy. I hope you are well.”

A shy nod was given before she scurried away.

Shivering from the cold and wet weather and being without a coat I walked back into the house and now could hear the two women descending the stairs. And when they came into view I saw Mrs Hudson carry a laundry basket and the maid, whose name I by now knew was Jane, had a dustpan and brush in one hand and an ash bin in the other. 

“The water should be boiling by now – but I cannot hear the kettle. I hope I have not forgotten to put it onto the stove again, I know I prepared the pot and the cups...” Mrs Hudson told the maid, with a confused expression bordering exasperation. “I'll just bring the laundry to the back and sort it quickly and then we'll have our tea. By the way, did you see Mrs Holmes go out?” Her voice trailed off as she disappeared through the door of the washhouse not waiting for an answer.

Re-entering the kitchen I found the startled girl staring at the steaming pot of tea in perplexity.

“Oy, you scared me, madam.” She exclaimed as she perceived me. “The tea, was that you?”

“Yes, it was,” I replied. “I have promised my husband to rest, but I am too restless to do so, so I wanted to ask if there is something I could help you with?”

“Ah, Mr Holmes said you might come down and ask for something to do,” the voice of Mrs Hudson chimed in from behind me. “Would you mind darning stockings? - Then I can prepare the room for the boy. It needs cleaning and airing and I need to find our former page boys old clothes, Mr Holmes said the boy will need them in all likeliness.”

She held the work basket toward me and I took it eagerly. 

“But certainly, Mrs Hudson.”

“Wonderful. - Will you join us for our tea?”

I answered in the positive and soon we sat together chatting merrily about this and that. - Something my sister in law certainly would find rather scandalous behaviour for a lady.

“You know, I never actually congratulated you on your wedding,” Mrs Hudson said after a while, holding out her hand as she sat next to me on the kitchen bench, and when I took it, she pulled me into a hearty hug. “I am very glad, my dear, to have you here. Though one day, you will have to tell me, how you managed to reform that man. - And in such a short time!”

“I will,” I laughed. “As soon as I have found out myself. - And I am very glad to be here, too.”

“But what actually happened to you, Mrs Holmes? If you don't mind me asking.” the maid shyly asked, looking at the bruises that were fading slowly.

I did not mind and so made a short sketch of my adventures – or rather misadventures, while passing the morning in their company, drinking tea, darning stockings and preparing Brussels sprouts for dinner.


	2. The worst of days - Part 2

The worst of days – Part 2

Sherlock:

“Hopkins, how are you? On any new case yet?” I greeted the young inspector, sitting behind his desk, overflowing with papers, in his dingy office. All offices in the Yard had a distinctly claustrophobic feel to them, but in comparison to this shoe box, Inspector Lestrade's office seemed positively lofty.

“Fortunately not.” was his reply. “I am still trying to make my last case as watertight as can possibly be.”

“But I had thought we had done so already.”

“Yes, me, too. But now Granville has managed to hire Sir Frederick Cartwright as his defence attorney and I do not want that man to slip out of our grasp because of some stupid mistake. So I am going through it again.” he answered with zeal in his voice.

“If there is anything we can do to help, you know where to find us,” I assured him, knowing the attorney's reputation as being one of the best.

Taking an uncomfortable looking chair from the corner behind the door, where it had been put away to be out of the way and pushing it towards Hopkins' desk, I sat down across from him. He knew of course, why I was calling and had already pulled out all references regarding Mrs Watson's accident as well as a map of London. - Not that I needed one, but I was thankful anyway.

“This is where it happened,” he told me, pointing at a spot where Hyde Park Street joined Bayswater Road.

“According to witnesses, the carriage came from the direction of Marble Arch. Mrs Watson had just crossed Bayswater Road, coming out of the park, with her son in his pram.” 

With one hand he indicated the carriage and with the other the mother and her child. - Mary and Henry Watson. 

“The carriage then turned into Hyde Park Street abruptly and without dampening the speed and hence dashing across the sidewalk, running over the lady and her baby.”

“So Mary Watson was not crossing the street at that time?” For some reason, I had always thought that to be the case and I had to remind myself, that I should not jump to conclusions without the necessary data to go with it. With the sparse information Watson had provided, presumably because he never knew any better himself, I realised an assessment was plain impossible.

“No, she was on the sidewalk and on her way home from a little outing.”

“Was there no oncoming traffic? The carriage crossed the opposite lane after all.”

“There was. The other cabby could stop his Hansom only just in time to avoid a collision. Jack Simms is his name. His statement is quite detailed and he was one of the first to help the injured lady. He was the one who fetched Doctor Watson.”

“What time did the accident happen?”

“Around two in the afternoon.”

“And no-one else was injured? The streets must have been busy at that time of day.”

“It was fairly busy. - A few younger men, walking as a group, stumbled and fell, but did not injure themselves apart from the odd bruise and the warden regulating the traffic only just managed to get out of the way. Another woman had sprained her ankle, but Mrs Watson and little Henry were the only ones who got seriously injured.”

“I never asked the date.”

“It happened on Saturday the 24th of June 1893.”

I wrote down the time, date, day and place, noting that soon I would need a new notebook.

“This is all we could find out. There are the statements and our conclusions. I am afraid it is not much.” 

Handing me the thin folder he made a rueful face.

“Little information is better than none,” I told him, taking the papers from him. He grinned lopsidedly and after I had finished my reading in little less than two hours, making notes and comparing statements, I knew why. The official records contained little more information than what I had gathered from Hopkins' short recapitulation anyway.

Mary Watson, née Morstan and her son Henry S. Watson were run over by a four-wheeled carriage that, some people were sure, had sported a coat of arms. It had been a sunny Saturday in June shortly after lunchtime at the corner of Bayswater Road and Hyde Park Street when mother and child were on their way home from a stroll in the park. That indeed was not much to go on.

The information about the coat of arms would indeed have been most valuable, had it not been for the fact that the description of it varied so widely, that at this point it was impossible to say, if there even had been a coat of arms, let alone to establish who owned the vehicle in question. And so people described a dark background with some silver rings, others wanted to have seen shields with a blue backing and a silver cross and again others had said there had been nothing of that kind, while yet another witness was certain, that the side of the carriage had been damaged and had a dent in the door, pretty much where a coat of arms would usually be attached. An advertisement in the papers had not hailed an answer and so for all we knew, the carriage could belong to anyone – or might even have been stolen. 

It would perhaps explain the excessive speed with which the carriage was travelling. Or was there another reason? In none of the reports, it had been stated that the vehicle had been chased. So why rouse suspicion by driving like the devil? Could it be the horses had shied and bolted, completely out of control? A few people, after all, had said that they had needed to jump aside. But why would the horses bolt? Carriage horses usually were chosen for their mellow and docile temper. - Much like artillery horses. Next to nothing could upset them. So why was it, that the driver went so fast? An emergency? A crime? Or sheer irresponsibility? And then, why had they not stopped to help the badly injured woman and her baby? Did they not notice they had been run over? Did they not care? Or again, could there be another reason?

Out of all these questions forming at the back of my mind, only one I could answer: A carriage was no locomotive – one must feel, that something or someone had been hit and run over.

So, back to square one… - why would someone care so little about his fellow creatures that he would just leave them lying there in their blood? Not bothering to even look whether it had been man or object that had been hit? I could see, why Hopkins was troubled so by this incident. This was much more than a simple accident. This was not just fate.

“Could you show me the exact spot?” I asked the young official when I had finished my reading and had been done with my notes and contemplations. 

He nodded, getting up from his equally uncomfortable chair, stretching himself.

Taking a cab, we took the exact same direction the carriage had taken that fateful day. To our left, the expansive green of Hyde Park stretched out and to our right rows of houses rose up, lining the street, most three stories high – not counting the attics.

We reached the junction soon enough. It was indeed a safe place to cross over from the park, the policeman once more standing on his pedestal, regulating the constant flow of cabs, carts, bus traffic and cyclists and letting the pedestrians cross in safety. Realising that Mary Watson had not taken the shortest but the safest route home, left me with a desolate sadness, my heart aching for my friends. But it also made me angry. Sometimes life just was not fair! And I hardly knew anyone more deserving of happiness than this little family had been. And still, it was not to last. I thought of my own wife, my own current happiness and promised myself to cherish every moment of it, as long as fate would have it last.

“Here it was,” Hopkins had walked around a bit and now pointed at a spot in front of his feet. “You can see the scratches on the side of the lamppost even now.”

I looked at it, standing a few feet away from the place Hopkins indicated.

“Mrs Watson had been thrown against it by the force of the impact, injuring her back in the process.”

I felt sick to the stomach in compassion, not quite able to repress my emotions as well as I usually would.

“And little Henry?” Somehow I had managed to sound as if I were talking about the weather.

“The pram toppled over and the baby fell out, hitting his head on the pavement.” Hopkins swallowed hard. “He did not die immediately. Doctor Watson's practise is close and he was here within ten minutes. - The baby died in his arms.”

Closing my eyes to hide my grief, I now knew why Watson had never spoken about his son. The memory alone already too painful to be borne. Never a very emotional man myself I was more shaken than I would allow anyone to see. Had it been me, my life would have come to an end.

“I wonder what Watson had been doing in his practice on a Saturday,” I, at last, managed to say, regaining some of my composure.

“As far as I know he was preparing everything for a weeks holiday with his little family.”

Just as I had thought things could not get any worse, they did. That fatal day must have begun with so much joy and hope and it ended in tragedy and devastation. - I decidedly dealt better with cases that did not involve my close friends or my own family. 

“How could he be reached that fast after the accident? Was there someone among the bystanders that knew the family?”

“The lady was badly injured, but not unconscious. Only when the doctor sedated her did she pass out. She must have been in horrible pain, but she had only eyes for her son.”

Forcing myself to concentrate on the hard facts I made a mental sketch of the crossroads. The sidewalk was wide as were both roads. Bayswater Road, being a thoroughfare was busier than Hyde Park Street but was regulated throughout the day. 

“What about the policeman? Did he not make a statement?” I could not recall having read an official statement.

“Oh, that was Frank Bates, you must have read it for sure.”

I had, just that I had not seen his rank mentioned. As it turned out, he had none, having volunteered for the day to fill the position.

“Why was that?” I inquired, surprised at this oddity. Normally older constables short of retirement would be on duty as a traffic warden, not any given volunteer.

“Because of the speech.”

“What speech?”

“Gladstone's speech down in Hyde Park. We needed some more people and so a few volunteers filled the lesser positions that day. - Mainly regulating traffic.”

Gladstone's speech? The three years of absence still caught up on me, even after almost a year back I had not yet managed to catch up on everything that had then escaped my notice. But suddenly a letter from Mycroft came to mind. During a public speech of the Prime Minister, a group of radicals had tried to kill the man. Could it be that…?

When asked Hopkins confirmed that it indeed had been the very same event. Deep in thought, I thanked him and decided to walk home. 

This surely would not be a three-pipe-problem.

xxx

As I neared my home I realised that I was almost impatient to seeing and holding my wife again. Coming home suddenly felt so much better than it had ever done before. 

But when I walked into the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, it was deserted. Neither Harriet nor Watson were anywhere to be seen, with the latter still being out. Having told my wife to rest, I cast an amused glance at the bedroom door, and opening it, I peeped through the small gap I had produced, only to find that chamber empty likewise. Having been almost desperately looking forward to embracing the woman I loved, I felt decidedly let down. Annoyed I rang for some tea and as if I had been anticipated it was brought up promptly. As soon as I looked up and at the woman carrying the tea tray, my irritation was gone. Here she was, looking oddly at home in this bachelor den of mine.

“You look vexed,” she remarked, looking concerned. “Is something the matter?”

“Not any more.” 

Taking the tray from her hands and putting it down on the table I pulled her into my arms, resting my chin on her shoulder. 

“I have missed you, that is all.”

“But you were only gone for little more than five hours, Sherlock.”

“With the information disclosed to me, it felt like a lifetime.”

Snuggling into the embrace she did not dig deeper, knowing I would tell her eventually. Who would have thought I would ever find a woman who possessed the ability to keep silent for any length of time? Feeling better already for the comfort I received and inwardly smirking at my own sarcastic thought – so misplaced when all this tragedy made my heart heavy, I longed for a bit of cheerful banter and so I remarked on it.

“I must warn you now, seeing that I am a woman, you will not be able to rely on my silence at all. It very much depends on my mood. - And the situation, of course. So be sure, that the least suitable instance will be the one, where I won't keep my mouth shut.” she warned me, her eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter.

“I had feared as much...”

“But at least I gave you a fair warning.” 

“I still harbour the hope, that at least you will say something fairly sensible even then.”

“I can be extremely silly at times.”

“Oh dear! But I should have expected as much. But I said fairly sensible, so we have to see that in comparison to the rest of the conversation.” I quipped.

Hands on her hips she looked at me with mock sternness, fully aware I was teasing her.

Carrying on I added: “You know, everybody is silly from time to time. - Apart from me, of course. I am such a rational and sensible man, it's simply not in my nature to be silly at all.”

“Considering that I must say, you are doing a very good job at it right now.”

“I have an adept teacher.”

Laughing and slapping my backside in a playful manner she tried to escape through the nearest door, which was the one to our bedroom.

“Oh no, no escaping into the bedroom!” I cried, catching her to kiss her. “Though on second thought...” I mused, eyeing the door in question.

xxx

Harriet:

When I woke up it was already getting dark. I could hear voices coming from the living room – my husband, I presumed, since he was not with me any more, and somebody else. And since I could not even distinguish between the voices as they spoke in low tones, I only knew Sherlock was not talking to a woman. I decided, after re-dressing, to take the door leading into the hallway, rather than the one that afforded direct access into the living room, so I would not interrupt my husband in his work, without giving him notice of my entering. Knocking timidly at the door, it was almost immediately answered by a perplexed looking Doctor Watson.

“Whatever are you knocking for, Mrs Holmes? This is your home, too, you know?”

“I thought there might be a client there, that you were talking to. I did not want to interrupt you without warning.”

Shaking his head, my husband remarked: “I would have woken you up in a minute or two anyway. Dinner is ready to be served, so Mrs. Hudson informed us, and we have just been wondering, what she'll serve us.”

“Roast chicken, Brussels sprouts, and potatoes.”

“Ah!” smiled my husband and a moment later added: “I see you have been taking care of the sprouts.”

“How on earth do you know that?” I looked at him aghast, while Doctor Watson gave a small smile.

“You happen to know whom you have married, Mrs Holmes, don't you?”

Looking at my hands I could see the slightest hint of greenish dirt stuck underneath my fingernails as a reminder of what I had busied myself with.

“I see you learn fast.” my husband commented, as he pulled back a chair for me.

“Well, I cannot have you surprise me all the time with your tricks of observation and deduction. Or one day you'll end up thinking you are superior to me.”

He raised an eyebrow in challenging amusement.

“And I prefer to have you as my equal.” I continued, mirroring his expression.

“For a moment I was scared there...” he sighed in seeming relief.

From the corner of my eye, I could see his friend shake with suppressed laughter, but once dinner had been served, the conversation from the morning resumed and became almost uncomfortably serious. 

“So, Watson, did you have an answer from your wife? Will it suit her if I go down to Torbay tomorrow?”

“She is looking forward to it. Here is her address.” he handed Sherlock a neatly folded piece of paper. “Is there any way, you might find out why? - And perhaps even who?”

“I think I have a good chance of doing so, Watson. I will speak to your wife tomorrow and ask Mycroft if he can spare some of his valuable time in order to see me the day after.”

“Mycroft?” the doctor looked at my husband in astonishment. 

“Yes, something caught my attention and he is the best person to clear matters up.”

Expectantly Doctor Watson kept staring at his friend, who did not seem to notice, being deep in thought.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“What is it, that caught your attention?”

“The time and place did. - The combination between time and place.” was his pensive answer as he fell silent once more. 

The remainder of the meal no-one spoke, but it was not an uncomfortable silence that surrounded us. When the table was cleared and the two men were smoking their after-dinner cigar, something that I had explicitly allowed them to do, I at last thought that another subject might be introduced.

“When is the new pageboy arriving?”

“I did not know you hired a new page.” The doctor sounded surprised.

“I did when we were in Winchester.”

Now both, Doctor Watson and I, looked at each other in astonishment.

“When on earth did you hire a page boy while we stayed in Winchester?” I inquired incredulously. Of course, I had heard his remark the day before, informing Mrs Hudson about the boy's arrival from there and that she would need to prepare his room, but I had thought his origin to be a weird coincidence. Now I knew better.

“When your mother took care of you.”

“You told me you helped Inspector Hopkins and then were reading up on medieval dovecotes.”

“I did both and thus I stumbled over the perfect addition to our household.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes, just like that.” Smoking thoughtfully for a few moments he added after a while: “should I have spoken to you first? I did not think you would mind. You have met the young man in question. His name is Tom – no surname.”

“You hired little Tom? But is he not a bit too young to work as a page boy just yet?” I was taken utterly by surprise.

“Perhaps he is a bit young, but he is such a promising little chap it would have been a shame to leave him in the gutter. - There must be some old clothes from our former page somewhere in the attic – he grew out of his things faster than one could climb up the stairs. But I would suggest you get him something decent when running your errands tomorrow.”

I was very moved by his considerate idea and got up to kiss him.

“He is also very devoted to you already, from what I have gathered.” my husband smiled. “But then again, who would not be?”

“Where do you want me to start?” I sighed theatrically, suppressing a cheeky grin.

“Not at all, I won't believe a word you are saying.”


	3. The worst of days - Part 3

The worst of days – Part 3

 

Sherlock:

I left the house the next morning before little Tom arrived, well knowing that the boy would have a pleasant surprise at any rate. Taking an express to Exeter and from there a much slower train that would bring me to Torbay, I arrived at the Torquay within little more than four hours. The last bit of the way had been spectacular, indeed, as we descended towards the sea the bay lay grey and heavy at the feet of the cragged reddish cliffs, with Brixham at its furthest end and the fort and lighthouse towering ominously over the small fishing town in some distance. Knowing from Watson that the little pension his wife and her friend stayed in was quite close to the station, I asked my way around and sure enough, within ten minutes I was standing in front of a pretty, neat, whitewashed pension, looking much as I had expected. Mrs Fawlty, the landlady, who opened the door herself, was a chatty, plump little person, wearing a bottle green dress and a bright red apron with yellow polka dots, giving her the appearance of an oversized rag doll. She was, in short, the epiphany of a caring though busy body hostess and it was no surprise that she immediately started to interrogate me about my visit to Mrs Watson.

“Are you her brother?” she asked, well knowing, in all likeliness, considering the lady in question had stayed at her place for almost a year, that Mrs Watson had neither brother nor sister.

“No.”

“A doctor?”

“No.”

“Her uncle?”

Inwardly I rolled my eyes in amusement, yet glad a the same time, my own landlady was not even remotely as chatty and busybody as this one.

“No, and I am also not butcher, baker or candlestick maker.”

“So what is it, you want from her then? You know she is ill and at any rate, this is a decent establishment. I cannot allow a single gentleman to visit a lonely lady. - Not without her husband, a friend or me to chaperone.”

I was hard pressed not to laugh. Her curiosity was so obvious, that she was not even acting cunningly, but was blunt to a point, where it was bordering the impertinent. And yet, looking at her face, I did not doubt that she believed her own words to be sincere.

“Mrs Fawlty, it was Mr and Mrs Watson's wish that I should come here and speak to the lady,” that at least was almost true – apart from the fact that I had initiated the whole affair while the other two had just agreed to the plan, “and had Doctor Watson not been busy in his practice, he would have come, too. And also, I am a married man myself – and again, had my wife not been engaged elsewhere, she would have come likewise. Apart from that, you should know, that with Mrs Watson, you have a woman of impeccable repute. - Your assumptions are indeed not very flattering for either of us.”

“The husband I rarely see, sir,” She defended herself and there was a slight accusation at my friend's neglect of his wife. “And still I fail to see, what you want from her, married or not.”

“And it is none of your business, as a matter of fact. But let me put it this way, it is mine and the Watson's business, who have both asked me to help them in a personal matter.”

She did not look too pleased with my reprimand but did not argue any further as she had to admit that there never really had been a reason for her, to act as chaperone and that it had rather been her wish to indulge her curiosity than to protect her lodger from any harm. In my mind, I could see her pudgy face pressed against the keyhole of the parlour door. How fortunate she was that short, at least she did not need to bend down very much to do so. 

The former Miss Mary Morstan sat at the window in her wheelchair, looking as handsome and tranquil as ever and when at my entering the room, her pretty little face lit up, she almost looked unchanged from the time I had seen her last.

“Mr Holmes!” she exclaimed, reaching out her hand. “I am so glad you have come.”

I took her little hand in mine, feeling its coldness. Looking around me and taking off my own overcoat, I realised the room was uncomfortably chilly.

“The maid has stormed out of the house a couple of days ago, shouting abuse at Mrs Fawlty,” Mary Watson explained. “The landlady forbid her to attend a suffragette assembly up in Babbacombe and the young girl had none of it. At any rate, Mrs Fawlty now needs to take care of everything herself, for during the winter months she never employs more than one maid. And currently, I am her only lodger anyway.”

“Then I will take care of the fire and make myself useful in getting this room more habitable.”

Kneeling down in front of the grate, I first took the poker to brush aside last nights ashes and then crumpled up some paper that lay atop a thankfully already filled coal scuttle and within minutes the fire merrily flickered and slowly warmed up the small but cosy chamber.

“I thought Mrs Forester was with you?” I picked up on her remark as I got up from my knees, dusting off my trousers.

“She is, just that she is currently visiting her sister in Newbury. The lady has invited her several times already and Mrs Forester could hardly postpone it any longer. At any rate, I would not want her to neglect her family on my account. And Mrs Fawlty is a good a reliable soul, and she has taken great care of me, so you see, I am none for the worse.”

Again I could vividly picture the lady with her ear on the door, glowing with the praise she had just received. But my friend's wife looked at me sadly, and I knew she would have wished for her husband to be at her side.

“Yes, I believe in an instant, that Mrs Fawlty is taking great care of you – and your affairs. She offered herself as a chaperone.”

The lady gave an amused giggle, before turning serious again.

“John said you would try and find out what happened...” she gestured at her legs that were covered by a pretty little quilt, not unlike the one I had seen on Harriet's bed in Chiswick.

“Yes,” I answered simply.

“I really need to know!” she sobbed, tears in her eyes as her hands reached out to me once more.

“You are a good man, Mr Holmes. I thought I could get over it eventually, but every single day I wonder if I, in any way, could have saved… - could have saved...”

She looked at me helplessly, unable to finish her sentence.

“If there is one thing I can tell you already, madam, than it is, that none of this is your fault.”

“My brain tells me so, but my heart says otherwise. Had I postponed my outing, or gone earlier...”

“...or not at all. - Mrs Watson, that is nonsense! It could have happened at any time anywhere.”

“But it happened there and then.”

“I know. So tell me, what do you remember?”

“It was a lovely and warm day and we were looking forward to our week in Brighton. I am sure little Henry would have enjoyed the sand – even though he was still too small to play in it. But he was so curious and sweet-tempered and never very troublesome. Over breakfast, I remembered that I would need a suitable hat for the beach and decided to walk down to Simpson's on Bayswater Road. And when everything was settled for the delivery, I ventured into the park, knowing that John would not be home till five. I crossed the street again at Hyde Park Street. – There is a policeman there, making it quite safe to cross and I had just done so and had walked a few yards when I heard the outcry of angry voices. Turning around I was just in time to see a carriage drawn by four brown horses dart towards me. I tried to get out of the way, but one wheel of the pram had got stuck between two of the cobblestones and I needed to yank very hard to free it. And by the time I had finally gotten it loose, the carriage had reached me and I was thrown over, painfully crashing into something.”

She looked up. The tears had dried, but the devastation obvious in every line of her friendly face. Reassuringly I squeezed her hand, that I still held and she continued:

“All I could think of was my baby. I could hear his cries, but I could not move, no matter how hard I tried to reach him. By that time several bystanders had gathered around me and the traffic warden came running, looking ghostly. A man in shabby clothing asked me, who should be called – he looked as if all blood had drained from his face – and I gave him the address of the practice, while an elderly woman handed me Henry. I was so relieved to see him kicking and squirming. He was cross, but alive. I did not care what anyone would think - my child was restless and he needed to drink, I knew it would calm him down. And so I nursed him for the very last time. John arrived and gave me something to relieve my pain, taking the baby from me. As I slowly passed out from the drug, I remember my husband standing there, cradling our son, holding him close, smiling at me reassuringly. I never saw Henry again. Later I was told he had died that afternoon – that was six days later. I had asked for him several times but was told I was not yet well enough. But I missed my son – missed having him in my arms, missed his irresistible smell – babies have this wonderful smell about them, Mr Holmes, there is nothing in the world that smells so lovely – not for a mother. And I missed him feeding off of me. I was uncomfortable, it hurt and embarrassed me. At last, I was given a tea and I ceased to have milk. When I asked about Henry again, concerned he would not get the nourishment that he needed any more, I was told by one of the nurses, who had finally taken pity on me, that he had been buried the previous day.”

Now she was crying again. And I let her, just making sure she knew she was not alone, by holding her little hand in mine. My heart bled for her and for my friend, who I knew suffered equally, though within himself, and I did not venture to try and imagine how much she must have suffered in those days of uncertainty and then later in those days of final certainty, while Watson carried all of this on his shoulders, trying to give her strength and hope. When her tears ebbed away she was much calmer, having shared her worst memory. What was it my wife had said when in distress herself? - Sometimes it is better to have things like that off one's chest. - Yes, that seemed very true indeed. 

But Harriet had also reminded me, that in this case, I would be re-opening barely healed wounds. Looking at the frail woman before me, I realised that in this instance the wounds had not even begun to heal, but were still gaping open, much like an infected injury, that without medical attention would never close up at all, but slowly poison and kill the patient. Realising that I must be the first person she had told the whole story to – not just the facts, but also the emotional part, I was not just touched, but also hoped this to be the treatment necessary to heal this putrid emotional wound. Though certainly not without leaving a scar. Like with Alastair Hayward's hand, this first needed to get horribly painful, before it could get better.

“Is there anything apart from the four horses, you remember about the carriage?” I asked when she had wiped away even the last tear and had cleaned her nose in an equally boyish fashion than Harriet did, when upset.

“As said, the horses were all chestnut brown in colour, quite stately and well kept, and the equipage was also quite grand and nothing like a four-wheeled cab. I do think I remember a pair of crossed swords on a blue background – much like a coat of arms, but something seems to be wrong with that image. As we walked around Hyde Park we saw a lot of grand carriages with coats of arms, I may be mixing things up.”

It was this remark though, that had me thinking once more that I was onto something. Could it perhaps be, that she had seen the very carriage earlier, whilst walking? I asked her, but she could not be sure of it.

“Could you draw that image?” I asked, reaching for my notebook and the desperately blunt pencil. Sharpening it I managed to cut myself. With a grimace I stuck my injured thumb into my mouth, to keep from soiling the many crocheted doilies or the light coloured runner – or my own clothing for that matter.

Reaching for the bell, that was conveniently placed on a small table next to her, Mrs Watson rang for the landlady and by the promptness with which she appeared and judging by the tears in her eyes, I found my suspicions confirmed. Mrs Fawlty had been eavesdropping on us. 

“Mrs Fawlty, Mr Holmes has cut himself, could you please get him a dressing for his finger?”

At the sight of the blood – I had managed to cut myself quite badly – the nosy dame paled visibly and hurried out of the room in her quest to find something to stop the blood flow from my digit.

“I am surprised she did not faint...” I mumbled, thumb still between my lips. Pressing the tongue against the gash.

“Me, too.” was the bemused reply. 

Picking up pencil and paper she began drawing, while I wrapped the clean strip of white cotton tightly around my finger as soon as it had been supplied.

“I would say this is pretty much it.” Mary Watson held up her drawing, before handing me back my notebook and pencil.

The picture was distinct enough to be able to look up on it. It was not quite shaped like the typical shield form of a coat of arms, but had more of an egg shape, with the top quarter unadorned, while the lower three quarters, she told me, were a deep blue, quite dark, but not dark enough to call it a navy blue. The two swords she had mentioned crossed each other right in the middle, the handles at the top and the blades pointing downward. Between every thus acquired gap, she had drawn three dots – twelve in all.

“Can you remember any colouring with these dots?”

“They were the same colour as the swords – a greyish kind of silver.”

“Thank you, I think this might help.”

“I hope so, Mr Holmes.”

For several minutes, once more we sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire, that would need re-stoking soon.

“Mr Holmes?” she, at last, broke the silence.

“Yes?”

“Why do you think John does not pine over the loss of his son? He was so devastated when you seemed to have died, but with Henry, I never so much as saw anything that indicated he was mourning his child. Not one single tear has he cried over him and he always seemed quite cheerful. Sometimes I almost hated him for his serenity. - Sometimes I still do. How can I be married to a man who is so callous at the death of his one and only child?”

I was shocked at her confession. But one look at her face showed me, that she did not hate her husband at all, but loved him dearly. Apart from that, I knew that it was simply not true what she had said and what she clearly believed. John Watson still mourned and I was sure that once one single tear broke from his eyes, he would not be able to stop weeping. I had seen him swallow hard on many occasion when our conversation had reached the topic of his wives accident and that day I had first confronted him with the knowledge that there had also been a son, the tears had, in fact, threatened to flow freely for a moment, as his eyes were brimming with them.

“Mrs Watson, your husband is so numbed by his grief, he is rendered emotionally as immobile as are you in body,” I told her quietly, feeling emotionally drained myself. “Did you know, little Henry died in his arms only minutes after he had sedated you?”

She looked surprised. 

“No, he never told me.”

“And seeing you this ill made him believe he needed to be strong – very strong. And never allowed him to have anybody share in his misery. Not you, not me – no-one. I told him, he was being stupid. Had it not been for a favour Inspector Hopkins had paid me, at which I invited him to a pint, I would never have found out either. I never knew till then, that a child had been involved.”

“Thank you.”

“Whatever for?”

“For trying to bring back the man I have married – and showing me he is still there underneath all of this grief and sorrow. At one point he felt so very distant, I had thought I had lost him forever. Now I begin to understand why. - And there I was thinking him cold and unfeeling!”

“How old was Henry?”

“Only six months, he would have turned seven months on July 6th.”

So little still – and then realising what his birthday must have been I swallowed hard.

“Have you ever known his second name?”

I had not, but I had an inkling.

“We named him after you. - Sherlock. I hope you do not mind? But we thought it very suitable. After all, without you, John and I would have never met. And we thought something of you should live on, even if it was just a name.”

Getting up I bend down, respectfully kissing her forehead.

“Thank you.” I could only whisper, too deeply moved to trust my voice. Holding both of my hands now she smiled, a sad smile, but not without hope.

“Now you yourself will have to pass on your name. - John wrote to me about your marriage.”

When it was time to return home, I felt bad leaving her like that, and at the same time, I knew she needed to be alone, contemplate the news about her son and her husband and at long last move on. It was not something I would be able to help her with, and it was certainly not my place to do so, it was something that only time could heal, as trite as it sounded. My mission was to find the answer as to why and who, and I would try my best to do so.


	4. The worst of days - Part 4

The worst of days – Part 4

Harriet:

Kissing my husband good-bye, I waited expectantly for Tom, and punctual like clockwork he arrived – a little out of breath, as he had been running all the way from the station to Baker Street. He looked much the same as he had done when I had last seen him. From his shabby, many-layered clothes to the cut on his forehead, with the stitches I had given him and that by now desperately needed to come out. His eyes widened when he saw me and in a child's unabashed affection, he threw his arms around me. Hugging him, I was touched by this heartfelt gesture the little waif graced me with.

“Welcome home, Tom,” I said at last with a smile, holding him at arm's length.

“I never thanked you, madam. - Are you really a doctor?”

“Do you doubt it?”

He shook his head vigorously.

“Good. So then come into the house. I reckon we should get you clean first – and then take out these stitches before they get inflamed.”

“Is that really necessary, Doctor…? - I don't even know your name.”

“My name is either Doctor Holmes or Mrs Holmes. I would prefer the latter. And yes, it is necessary for you to get clean, in order to work here and it is also necessary to get out these stitches, Tom.”

“Damn!”

“Tom – no swearing!”

Blushing, he promised he would try, assuring me, that he did at least not mind the cleaning himself bit of my order.

“Very well, then – come in and I show you the bathroom. Jane has prepared some warm water for you and the tub is waiting.”

“Me take a bath?” he beamed up at me. “Wicked!”

A grin stole across my face, that just would not be repressed.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot – no swearing. But I had not had a bath in such a long time...”

As we walked to the laundry downstairs, at the back of the house where Mrs Hudson and the servants took their baths, I carried on talking: “You'll find fresh clothes laid out for you. Though they might be too big for you yet.”

“Oh, that does not matter. I rather have clothes that are too big, than clothes that are too small – or dirty. They are never very comfortable and one is never quite covered by them.” he assured me, very happy at the prospect of getting clean and decent and it had me wonder, how he had ended up on the streets. He was well-spoken, he had polite manners and he was lacking the overall rebelliousness I had met so often with the species of the London guttersnipe.

An hour later Mrs Hudson, Jane, Tom and myself sat unceremoniously in the kitchen, each a steaming mug of tea in their hands. The landlady had already shown him his little attic chamber and I had taken out his stitches carefully and now the little boy sat there among us three women, looking form one to the other, not quite sure what was expected of him. At last, he could bear it no longer, and picking up his courage, he asked: “So, what is it, I am supposed to do?”

“You, my boy, will help Jane in her duties. Particularly in cleaning out the grates and bringing down the ashes, as well as other refuse. I suggest you follow her for the next week or two, to know your way around. Apart from that, you will help to serve the meals – meaning bringing them upstairs -, attend the door, clean and polish the shoes, run errands and so forth.”

Unlike so many other boys, Tom did not look the slightest bit taken aback at the prospect of doing household chores – on the contrary.

“So what shall I do first?” he asked eagerly.

“You'll come with me,” I answered, “I need to pick up a couple of things from my house in Chiswick. But before that, we need to go and see a friend of mine and pick something up from her, that we need to take back to my house.”

“Wick...” he trailed off as he reminded himself of his promise and I could see Jane grin, well knowing what he had been about to say.

xxx

“We are taking a cab?” Once more Tom was stunned at his good luck when I hailed a four-wheeler.

“For sure. Chiswick is quite a distance from here and remember, we first need to go and see my friend, who lives in Hampstead. It would be too far to get everything done on foot.”

“You said your house was in Chiswick. Do you not live with your man?”

“I do live with him. - But we have only just gotten married and still need to arrange a good many things and our living arrangements is one of them.”

“And what happened to you, you seem injured?”

“The exact same thing that has happened to you, Tom. And at the hands of the very same people.”

The small boy shivered.

“They have been truly evil.”

“Yes.”

“Mr Holmes, is he a policeman?”

“A consulting detective.”

I could see from the confusion spreading over his face, that he did not know what was meant by that and so I explained it to him, until we reached the house of Anne Fraser.

When I had dropped off Louise, I had promised her to pick up the large and impractical pram within the next few days and now the beaming mother opened the door herself, baby in her arms.

“Harriet!” she exclaimed happily. “It is so good to see you are getting better. Two days ago you looked horrible!”

“Thank you for your frankness,” I remarked dryly, making her grin ruefully. “But I was very tired then, and my lesions still troubled me.”

“Won't you come in and take some tea? - Then you can tell me all about...” she shifted the tiny bundle in her arms and pointed at her own forehead to indicate she meant my injuries.

“I would love to, but I am afraid I cannot do so today. Could we postpone our chat to in a week? I am on my way to Chiswick to drop of the pram and pick up some things and then I'll need to return home.” 

At this point, Mrs Fraser looked already puzzled.

“And my husband has hired a new page boy and he has only just arrived this morning, so I'll be rather busy today with running errands.”

The confusion on my friend's face had grown with every word I had spoken and once again the need for an explanation for my rather unusual situation arose.

“Excuse me, but who did you say, hired a page boy?” she asked after a few instances of complete perplexity.

“My husband.”

I have to admit, that at this point I began enjoying these queer situations as much as Sherlock seemed to do. Particularly since so many of my friends – Anne Fraser among them – had repeatedly offered to find a suitable husband for me. As if I could not possibly cope without a man!

“Your husband?” she stared at me in disbelief. “You have a husband?”

“Yes.”

“Is there something else you are keeping from me? Do I need to congratulate you on more than your wedding?” her gaze darted towards my midsection and I wondered what kind of impression I must have left with my friends and family, that my brother did not put it past me that I might have an illegitimate daughter and now the actual mother of that child thought, I had needed to get married pretty much for the same reason.

“No, only for the wedding,” I assured her.

“But why did you not say anything? Why this secrecy? Is he someone your brother might not approve off?”

“There is no secrecy. It was only a very speedy decision, that is all.”

“Just how speedy? I did not even know you were engaged to be married.”

“Well, last time you saw me, I wasn't. - Apart from Wednesday of course, but then again, I was married then already.”

“So, the man that had accompanied you, was your husband? - But when did you meet him? And where?”

“Yes, that was my husband. And I met him on Thursday last week, when I basically woke up in his arms, lying on the floor of his living room – where I had collapsed.”

To say my friend Anne Fraser was shocked at this revelation would have been an understatement. She was now so thoroughly perplexed, that it took her some minutes to recover.

“But when you only met him then and were married already last Wednesday, when on earth did you marry?”

“A week ago, today.”

“Are you out of your mind? - What will your family say? Your brother?” she cried out and then her face grew compassionate as she gasped: “Has he forced you?”

“My family approves of him – since my husband has met them, my mother and brother, to be precise, and is still alive and well. No, I was not forced – at least not by him, but by circumstances and thank you very much, but I am perfectly sane.”

From Sherlock, I knew that Doctor Watson had asked the exact same question at his friend's revelation of having married.

“Well, he looked sensible enough...” she admitted.

“He is a very sensible man. And a very good one.”

Anne just shook her head, but a grin had appeared on her pretty face and it eventually turned into a heartfelt laugh.

“Then I presume I should call the maid, so we can get this monstrous pram of yours into the cab.”

“It is Cedric's pram.”

“If you keep up with that speed, you'll need it soon enough.”

When the heavy thing had been stored with the help of Tom and the cabby, and I had climbed into the cab also, she held my hand, adding: “You know, you look very happy – and I am sure he must be a very good and deserving man.”

“I don't think, I could wish for a better.”

“Then you will have to come to dinner soon. I am very intrigued by your husband, Mrs. -?”

“Holmes. Mrs Holmes, I am now.”

“Oh, that I can remember! You know James and I like reading these detective stories. Brilliant, I tell you. I know you are not too keen on them, and I dare say, a man like that Sherlock Holmes must be very daunting, indeed. Wouldn't you agree?”

“A bit perhaps,” I answered, before it dawned on me, that Anne had meant the man she had read about and not the man she had met, not venturing to think it was actually one and the same person.

How on earth could I have forgotten about these publications? I had always tried to stay out of the limelight and now… - Oh, dear! I made a mental note to read the stories at last. Perhaps I could even persuade the hero of these stories to read them to me? - No, probably not, I inwardly chuckled. The man I had met did not strike me as a person who felt too comfortable in the spotlight either.

“Harriet?” I heard my friend say, “Will it suit you if I send you a dinner invitation for in a fortnight?”

“That sounds lovely. Of course,” I answered still somewhat distracted. 

“And what address will I have to send it to?”

“Either my Chiswick address or to 221b Baker Street.”

“221b? I'll write it down immediately.”

And so, with the kindest regards to each others families, Tom and I, at last, drove on.

xxx

Reaching my Chiswick home, once again Tom seemed awestruck – and yet there was something else in his countenance I could not place.

“This is beautiful!” he exclaimed, as we entered through the garden gate. It certainly was in summer. But now the plants began to wither from the increasingly cold weather and the lawn had gotten a bit too long and shaggy over the last couple of weeks and it was only fortunate that it would now grow only very slowly.

“My father was a gardener,” Tom added, longing in his voice at his reminiscence. “We used to live on an estate close to Winchester. But then he died and mother married again, so we would not starve, as she called it. But...”

He stopped, eyes looking into the distance, though unseeing. But the boy did not need to say any more. It was the same old story and what he had said was already enough to be fairly certain what had happened after the stepfather had come into the picture.

We did not stay long, as I knew what I wanted and as I entered my house, only the hook and the cracked ceiling indicated, what had happened here over a week ago, though I knew that blasted dress form was still stored away in my disused horsebox. But perhaps I should thank that man Wright for having scared the wits out of me… I gathered my things together, which meant some items of clothing, a quilt, a rag rug and some curtains for Tom's room and my personal correspondence. The letter to Caroline Briggs was long overdue to be sent – and I found yet another epistle she had written in the basket attached to my letterbox. And so after about twenty minutes, we left for home, only stopping briefly at a haberdasher's and at St. Anne's to sort out my return and pick up some more, this time professional, correspondence.

We arrived at Bakes Street just in time for tea.

“You were fast,” the maid exclaimed, looking secretive as if she was up to something.

“I knew what I wanted, needed and where to find it.” I laughed. “And now, I will make the boy's room a bit more habitable – if you don't have any objections, that is.”

With that last sentence, I had addressed Mrs Hudson, who had just joined us, with the same expression the maid had sported. And I dearly hoped she was not one of those employers, that did not like their staff to have some comfort in return for providing it for the ones they served.

“No, not at all,” she replied. “Had I known he would not bring anything with him, I would have done so myself already.”

That was good news.

“Will you help me, then?” I asked her innocently, knowing she was up to something.

“I am currently busy...” she answered rather sheepishly.

“Perhaps I can give you a hand first?” I offered.

“You are just as bad as your husband!” she exclaimed, before admitting: “I have organised a wider bed for the two of you – it was supposed to be a surprise.”

“It is one. - And I won't tell Sherlock.”

xxx

When dinnertime came, Doctor Watson joined me, but my husband was still absent.

“Did he not say, when he would return?” the doctor asked.

“No, only that it might get late and that we should not wait for his return.”

We had of course just finished our meal, and the doctor had just excused himself to retire early, for he had slept little over the last few days, when Sherlock did arrive, looking tired and worn, also.

“Good evening, my dear.” he greeted with a weary smile.

“Good evening, my love,” I replied, getting up to first help him out of his overcoat and then to fetch his dinner. He had slipped into his dressing gown, while I was gone and as he tucked into his meal I saw the bloody bandage around his left-hand thumb.

“What happened to you?”

“Nothing, I just cut myself.”

“Do you want me to have a look at it? It looks as if you managed to harm yourself quite severely.”

He looked up, smiling: “If you must, Doctor Holmes.”

“I must, Mr Holmes. - And also, do you care about sharing your worries?”

“Is it that obvious I am troubled?”

“Yes.”

“It was a trying day. This business is getting to me more than it should. It is just so devastatingly sad.”

And with that, he began telling me all he had learned. When he had ended, I knew why he had looked so tired upon entering, I was hard pressed, not to cry in compassion for these poor people I have come to value so greatly.

“So, can I help you with anything?” I enquired.

“Perhaps you could search through some notes for me tomorrow? Mrs Watson has drawn an image of a coat of arms, she says she has seen – and I would also like you to find any references about the attempted assassination of Prime Minister Gladstone in '93. - I am not sure though, if I have anything in my own papers, as I was out of the country at that time. But would you mind searching in the newspaper archives? - The Times is perhaps a good starting point.”

“I don't mind in the least. Why would I?”

“Perhaps you might think it to be a boring task?”

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed with emphasis, clearing the table and ringing for Jane to pick up the dirty dishes and bring up some tea.

“And how is Tom behaving? I presume you have sent him to bed early?” Sherlock asked me when the tea had been brought up and we had walked over to the sofa where my husband had pulled me down onto his lap, carefully removing the pins from my hair.

“I did. He was very tired and he was looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed again. But he did really well. The boy is attentive and eager to learn. I would like to teach him how to read and write.”

“I had hoped so – but read and write he can, and well. He will need some further education though.”

By now he had managed to take out the last of the pins and his fingers ran through my hair absent-mindedly. I enjoyed his tenderness, the comfort of peacefully sitting there in his arms, head leaning against his shoulder, with no further need for idle conversation. I caressed his face and neck and as the time passed I began to feel a welcome sense of drowsiness, a tranquillity I had never experienced before. 

“I think we should go to bed, dear,” Sherlock suggested at some point, where both our eyes began drooping.

“And I think you are right with that.” I yawned, moving to get up.

“I see you have been busy, during the day...” he mused as he saw the new bed. “at least now it is getting more difficult for you to steal the blanket from me.”

“I don't steal blankets!” I mumbled, as once again I snuggled up to him.

“Oh yes, you do. You stole my blanket and my heart, you little thief!”


	5. The worst of days - Part 5

The worst of days – Part 5

Harriet:

The next morning Sherlock and I left the house together after breakfast and while he dropped me off at the office of The Times, he himself carried on to speak to the man he had mentioned when speaking to the doctor. I have to admit that at entering the building, I was a little timid whether I would find any usable information. 

At the time I had read of the incident, of course, but politics rarely interested me, as they only made me angry most of the time. And in this case with the arrest of the men involved, my interest had ceased soon enough.

Sitting down at one of the tables of the public reading room, I asked a clerk for the papers of the months from May to July 1893.

“If you could turn your attention towards the private advertisement section, I would be really grateful,” my husband had said when he had helped me out of the carriage.

“Is there anything in particular, you want me to look for?” I had asked.

“Anything that strikes you as odd.” had been his pensive answer.

Now I sat there, a stack of almost a hundred papers in front of me and suddenly it seemed a rather daunting task. But as I needed to start somewhere, I began by reading the official reports first and having written down a short abstract of the events I eventually moved on to the advertisements. Between all the lost and founds, only two struck me as significant. Or at least potentially so.

The first one had me almost laugh out loud. It read: 

To all:  
Ewe-art destined to lose influence during public presentation on June 24th by termination it is said. 

That was till I realised, that Ewe-art would be pronounced roughly like Ewart, and that the edition had been from the 20th of June. Four days before the planned assassination. It was so blatantly obvious when reading aloud, that I wondered, why they had not just written William Ewart Gladstone etc. pp..

And yet, very few people read advertisements aloud and even then, this one had been tucked away between an advertisement for phosphorous chamber pots that would glow in the dark if one had put them on the windowsill during the day and another one for a decidedly undignified looking umbrella that would attach to a man's hat so he could still make use of both his hands for whatever. - Presumably holding on to his hat as the wind got caught underneath the umbrella. In the light of those two hilarious inventions, ewe-art had first appeared to be just another inanity.

The second had been in the papers almost three weeks later on the 12th of July. It was less original: 

To F. D.:   
24th of June was a disaster, almost got caught. J threatens me. Will need to go under, found position already. Join me at 79 PM tonight, at the back door, keep silent while waiting.   
J. L.

 

Looking at it, only the date might strike one as significant. And yet, it could just as well refer to another incident that had turned into a disaster, who knew?

By the time I had gathered my things together my stomach growled and I realised it was almost tea time. Stepping out of the building and onto the busy street, notes stuffed into a dispatch box, I was just in time to see my husband ascend the stairs I was about to descent. He was so deep in thought, that he almost walked past me, hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes cast towards the ground, only taking in what was absolutely necessary not to stumble. Blocking his way, he, at last, became aware of my feet, the hem of my skirt and at last myself.

“I take it you have found something,” I greeted him, smirking. “So your visit to Mr Mycroft was a successful one?”

Glancing over his shoulder I saw the Hansom he had obviously arrived in, held another person, a rather burly man, which I took to be the man he had spoken to.

“Yes, we thought we would pick you up and eat something together. My brother is rather keen on meeting you.” 

“Your brother?” I gasped, taken aback.

“Yes, Mycroft is my brother. But you look yourself as if you have found something that might help us.”

“Perhaps...” I was still shocked by his revelation. 

Bending forward he whispered into my ear: “It's a little payback for you not telling me that I have a mother in law.” before pecking me on the cheek.

xxx

Sherlock:

It was an odd feeling to drop off my wife to do some research on a case for me. A feeling between pride and concern. Should I drag her into my profession? She was bright and attentive and I had no intention to refuse her help in a case so dear to me. But what after that? I decided that only time would tell and that it was not worth wondering about it just now.

Another odd feeling was the anticipation of meeting my brother and informing him, that his younger sibling now was a married man. I had written to him and was due to meet Mycroft at the Diogenes Club at ten. Climbing up the stairs to the stately but unimposing building I entered into a world of silence. With the club members sitting and walking around the many rooms without uttering a sound apart from the odd cough or sneeze, the club appeared almost ghostly and had it not been for the constant ticking of the large grandfather clock opposite the entrance door, one could easily think to have been trapped inside a painting. Even the butler did not venture to speak and only held out his hand to receive my card, knowing I did not belong to the regular members of this establishment.

Having been informed about my visit, I was led into the visitors' room – the one and only room in the whole of the Diogenes Club, where speaking and taking notice of one another was permitted. An instant later I was joined by my brother.

“You are early, Sherlock.” he greeted, looking at his watch.

I was, by a full three minutes…

Laughing I replied: “Good morning to you too, dearest brother.”

“Well, I am also your only brother, so that does not say much,” he grumbled affectionately. 

Stepping forward, Mycroft took my outstretched hand and placed his left on my shoulder.

“You are looking well, Sherlock,” he remarked as the butler returned with a tea tray and to take my hat, coat and gloves.

“So, how may I help you? You said you need some information about the attempted Gladstone assassination.”

“I do. - Preferably the information that has not been published by the papers.”

“So I take it you have read up on it?”

“No, admittedly not. Not yet. But I have some research done. - An overall sketch would be nice to begin with though. I do remember you have mentioned it in one of your letters, but I cannot recall any details.”

“I don't think I have given you any. I was more interested in your findings of the killing of Gordon in Khartoum and there was not much of a mystery with the Gladstone...” he stopped mid-sentence, his gaze fixed on my left hand with which I had just handed him a cup of tea. For a moment his brow creased and then he looked taken aback before he finally looked up and into my eyes.

“I am no longer surprised you look this well...” he teased, raising an eyebrow insinuatingly. “Married life becomes you.”

“It does.”

“Am I an uncle yet? I don't think it would surprise me very much, after seeing you taken in at long last.”

“That, Mycroft, would be impossible, as we only got married last Friday.” I grinned.

“I was not aware that a marriage license was needed to be able to reproduce.”

“No, you are right. But I only met my wife the day before I wed her.”

It was not very often, that I saw my older brother disconcerted. Now though was one of those rare moments.

“You don't look as if you were forced on gunpoint… So why this hurry? Is there reason to think you did misbehave after all? - And had fun with it?”

I often forgot, how straight to the point my brother could be. This was not political Mycroft, but older brother Mycroft – the one who could be blunt to the point of embarrassment. I explained our situation and after a moment of contemplation my brother asked: “Do you love her?”

“Yes. - Harriet is the one woman, in whose company I have felt nothing but comfortable in. She is all I have ever wished for in a wife – she is intelligent, level headed, kind, brave, witty – with a tiny evil streak you will find quite charming, and on top of that, she is very pretty.”

“That, Sherlock sounds almost too good to be true,” he laughed – a warm-hearted and honest laugh. “But I can see you mean it and I congratulate you to have found your soul mate. It is very rare, you know. Since Stephen died… - But anyway, let's turn to the problem at hand.”

The next few hours we spent in deep conversation about the case and the already well-known facts about the attempted assassination I will only repeat thus far as it will help to revive the memory about the incident but not go into detail.

The autumn of 1892 and the consecutive spring of '93 had brought a general crisis in the economy of our country as the harvest had been plagued by severe weather and a minor crash in the stock market as a new invention abroad had decreased the export of British steel. As their business affairs did not prosper as much as had been anticipated, several major landowners – all of them descended from nobility and also involved in the stock exchange, had decided to increase the prices on their grain by more than double of what was customary. There had also been rumours, that part of the reason was, that the said landowners had wanted to put pressure on the government, which could never be confirmed though. 

As a consequence, a lot of grain was now imported on a less expensive price from Ireland. This was quite lucrative for the Irish producers, too, as it was still much more than they could have sold their grain at within their own country. At long last though, this practice led to the necessity of Ireland importing the over-prized English product and at long last, the Prime Minister had been faced with several Irish independent movements who threatened with an uprising, should not the government interfere and make sure the prices of basic foods would get back to an affordable sum.

The speech on the 24th had been in an attempt, to calm all parties involved – which was by now the English landowners, the Irish independent movements, and a group of socialists in England, who fought for the rights of the poorest, who still could not afford their daily bread. It was in the aftermath of a considerable tax reduce the Irish had received, to keep them calm, while the landowners were forced to reduce their prices – but instead were given a considerable tax exemption to appease them likewise. Which left only the third party unsatisfied. Those Marxists had then threatened to eliminate the person they deemed responsible for this injustice, namely William Ewart Gladstone. But, they were caught and ended up in prison and all seemed to be well. - So far the official version. The unofficial one differed in a very significant point – the group of radicals.

“Do you imply, that it was not the socialists who were behind this after all?” I asked my brother after he had given me the same rough overview – though in considerably more words and several more details.

“That is exactly what I am implying, Sherlock,” he confirmed. “There is one more group of people who were not very happy about this business.”

“I doubt Gladstone would have dabbled with the Irish.” I contemplated.

“No, which leaves the gentry.”

“But did you not just say that they got a considerable tax exemption in exchange for their lowering their prices again?”

“I did. But there is one crucial point, which I have not yet told you – and which is not widely known to the public. To prevent a similar situation in the future, the government proceeded to pass a law, which would enable them to control the prices of all staple foods, such as grains, potatoes and root vegetables and thus taking a lot of independence from those making money with it.”

“In other words the influential landowners.”

“Yes. Gladstone had almost managed to smuggle this new law through the House of Lords. - But not quite. That it was not passed, after all, was a direct consequence of the events of the 24th of June.”

“So who was arrested? You said there was no mystery going with this case, so the would-be assassins must have been caught.”

“The men that were arrested were a group of elite students and like-minded nobles posing as Marxists. All of them stem from noble families, most of them titled and dabbling in politics.”

“And all of them were arrested?” I asked, quite angered at their cowardly behaviour.

“We are not quite sure, whether we got them all. It is a radical circle around Lord Northington's younger son – Thomas Jennings, by name. They have already attempted to denounce public elections as being unlawful, wanting to return to the system before the instalment of the House of Commons. There are several young men belonging to this group, but not all were involved in the planned assassination. - Some even distanced themselves from the radicals and went their own way since then.”

“Thomas Jennings, was he among the captured men?”

“He was captured in the aftermath and released only a few hours later. He could not be connected with the crime, as at that time, he had been accompanying his family to the speech in an official manner and he never strayed from his father's side. Whether he had anything to do with the planning could never be established.”

“Yet it sounds as if you are convinced he is the instigator of the whole affair,” I smiled grimly.

“Yes. And he even admitted as much – but by using his words very carefully, he knew that they could never be used against him in court. - He is a most clever young rascal and I would be very much surprised if you will not meet with him in your line of work one day.”

I contemplated the information while sipping my tea. The Diogenes Club served an excellent blend – as it did with all the creature comforts.

“So, we have covered Lord Northington's son. Who are the others?”

“Less lucky was Richard Beaton Esq., he was caught with the grenade in his hand, about to throw it. Then there is Nigel Didcot, oldest son of Sir Lewis Didcot, M. P. for Cumberland – if that is not ironic, Theodore Moore, Randolph Lopscombe and Gregory Mallet. Though I am convinced that there were some that have actually gotten away.”

“So these are just the ones that were imprisoned?”

“And still are – apart from Didcot, who is deceased.”

“Was it a natural death?”

“Suicide.”

“And those who might have gotten away?”

“No idea. The prisoners are all equally silent on that point. And even though their friends have been checked, it could not be established, that they had anything to do with the attempted crime.”

Enjoying the cigar, Mycroft had offered, I leaned back in my armchair, staring into space and trying to sort my thoughts. Just how likely was it, that these two isolated instances were connected? At first glance thoroughly unlikely. And yet, time and place of the Watson's accident bothered me and it was not easily dismissed. And what about the coat of arms, some thought to have seen? All of the men involved were descended from gentry – titled or not. And yet again, so many other families completely uninvolved in the planned assassination had been present also.

Reaching into my inner pocket, I handed the drawing of the coat of arms, that Mrs Watson had drawn, over to my brother.

“You would not happen to know, what family this belongs to?” I asked him, adding the information about the colouring.

“No, I am afraid nothing comes to mind. But then again with these things a small alteration in detail and it could belong to another family altogether. Did you know, that swords are among the most common depictions on coats of arms?”

“Yes.”

“And a dark blue is rather ordinary as well.”

“Then I will have to dig through my reference books, perhaps something comes up.”

Pouring himself some more tea and ignoring my own empty cup, my brother grinned at me: “Perhaps your wife could help you...”

Looking at the clock on the mantelpiece I realised just how late it was and I all but jumped out of my seat.

“Did I say something wrong?” Mycroft now looked concerned, though the amusement did not leave his eyes completely.

“Not at all. You just reminded me, that I should perhaps pick up Harriet. She is currently doing some research for me at the Times archive down in Fleet Street.”

Ringing the bell for my hat and coat, I was pacing the room rather impatiently while waiting for the butler to appear. When he did, I was surprised by my brother who ordered his things as well.

“I think I would like to meet this remarkable lady, who has stolen my little brother's heart, and who after only two weeks is already deemed worthy enough to help him in his work,” he exclaimed, explaining his actions.

“So, Could I invite the two of you for a late lunch at the Holbourne? It's just around the corner from Fleet Street.”

“Well, when my dear brother decides to be sociable once in a while, it is not on me to deny him my company.” I laughed. 

“And it is not everyday my brother tells me he got married – and admits he is in love! And there I have always thought he was a reasonable man.”

Now I laughed. Most times Mycroft was imposing and severe to the extreme and only when one got to know him it became clear he had a heart of gold. Even I on occasion forgot, just how human he could be when he chose to.

Hailing a Hansom, from lack of a four-wheeler, we made our way down Pall Mall. Leaving No. 79 – better known as the Diogenes Club behind us. 

As we neared Fleet Street we had to cross a couple of planks that had been laid across a hole in the street surface, where a water pipe had burst and needed repairing. And even though the boards were shaped in a way that they could be easily crossed by the many carriages and carts, still the vehicle swayed as we did. No-one could have missed cutting the kerb and hitting a mother and her child.

Deep in thought I alighted the cab to see if my wife was still where I had left her, and only when I saw the polished tips of two lady's boots peeping from underneath a plain and unadorned woollen skirt of dark red colour, did I look up and into my Harriet's smiling face.


	6. The worst of days - Part 6

The worst of days – Part 6

 

Harriet:

It was already beginning to get dark when we reached Baker Street. To say I had been surprised to find my husband had a brother, would have been an understatement. Mycroft Holmes looked much like Sherlock but was stronger built and decidedly less agile. He was jovial and talkative – something my husband assured me, was highly unusual for the man. The three of us had spent the afternoon taking a very late lunch and talking about what we had found and now there was only one thing left to do. - Looking up the coat of arms.

When we entered the sitting room, we were greeted by a note from Doctor Watson, telling us he had decided to go down to Devon and see his wife. 

“I am glad he is gone to visit her,” Sherlock remarked, as he pulled a stack of books from the shelf. “I actually recommended him to go. - I don't think he was aware of just how much she must miss him. There is a lot that needs settling between those two.”

“And so you have turned to matchmaking?” I grinned. My husband was a dear fellow, but he was not exactly versed in advising people in love matters.

He had propped the first stack of books onto our dining table and was still pulling out more volumes, to an extent that I feared the table would bend under their combined weight.

“Don't you have a who is who?” I asked with a raised eyebrow, meaning one of the official books dedicated to our gentry and nobles and all their heritage and folly.

“I had,” he admitted, “but I managed to pour some bromine over it during a chemical experiment and it became unreadable.”

His rueful grin was impossible to resist. Shaking my head in amusement, I planted a kiss firmly on his lips and his smile widened.

Not in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined, that so many families had aspirations for a coat of arms. Finally, we had a collection of twelve possible emblems, taking into consideration that Mrs Watson might have missed a detail or had subconsciously added one. The most likely candidate, was a shield sporting a pair of crossed swords, much as the lady had described, but with three white roses in each space, instead of the dots or spheres, she had drawn. It belonged to the Brandon – Family of Cornwall. It would have been an easy solution indeed, but as it turned out, the Brandon's had no male member of the family currently residing in England and had not had so for the past six years, as one Reginald Brandon was stationed with his regiment in Cape Town and thus was accounted for – apart from that he was also well over fifty.

“Is there any coat of arms that comes close to one of the arrested men's?” I wondered, stifling a yawn. 

While Sherlock had written down more information about Didcot, Mallet, Beaton and so forth, I had mainly put my attention to comparing and sorting the emblems.

“The closest would be the one of the Beaton – Family. Their background is in a greyish blue, with two crossed flails and a bunch of three grain spikes topping them. We cannot rule it out, of course, but I am not convinced it is what we are looking for.”

He held up the picture and I had to agree, it was a far cry from what the lady thought to have seen. 

“And I doubt my findings will help at all...” now it was my turn to look rueful. I had made a short report on my findings, while we had eaten but only now I pulled out my notes and spread them across the stacks of books and loose papers cluttering our dining table.

“But this is exactly what I had hoped you to find.” my husband seemed more enthralled than I would have thought at the sparse information I had delivered.

“But will it help us?”

“Well, it suggests a man with the initials J. L. got away. - and also at last one other man must have done likewise.”

“But how could he know. The paper did not mention any names?”

“That is true, but you know how society works, and particularly in those elevated circles. There is no way, that the ones involved did not know what happened to their fellows. I am sure that each of them knows, where the others are – in short, who got caught and who escaped.”

“Well, Thomas Jennings did – escape I mean. Perhaps he was the one to receive this message.”

“I doubt it.” Sherlock disagreed. “First of all, he got away without any secrecy and secondly, he is doing anything but lying low.”

“He might not have read the paper.”

My husband smiled in amusement. “Yes, that is, of course, possible, but then, I doubt a man reads The Times one day and leaves it the other. And it does appear as if this paper was their means of communication. I dare say, if you had looked even further into the past, you would have found similar messages once in a while. But either way, Jennings' initials are not F. D..”

That, of course, was a good point. 

“Do you want me to go back, looking for them?” I enquired, stretching myself, my back hurting and the corset troubling me after a long day slumped over documents.

“No, at this point that would be a waste of time.” My husband leaned back in his chair and his gaze fixed on a spot on our ceiling.

“Well, I think I will go to bed now.” I yawned once again. My husband did not seem to notice. Leaving him sitting where he was, I stoked the fire and retreated into the bedroom. Snuggling into our comfortable bed, I felt exhausted and at the same time wound up and sleep just would not come. How was one supposed to sleep, when so many questions were left unanswered? After more than an hour I was, at last, drifting off and into the land of dreams and only subconsciously I registered my husband climbing into bed behind me, carefully sneaking his arm around me, as was his habit.

xxx

The next morning I woke up in a deserted bed, while in the room next door I heard the sound of footsteps walking back and forth. And when I entered the sitting room I could tell from the denseness of the smoke from his pipe, that Sherlock had gotten up hours ago.

Looking at me he halted in his restless wandering, asking apologetically: “I did not wake you up, did I?”

“No, you did not,” I answered truthfully, opening one of the windows to let in some fresh air. 

“Hm!” And with this monosyllable, he carried on pacing the room.

“Good morning, madam!” Tom beamed at me, carrying a tray with a coffee pot and two cups and saucers as if he had done so a thousand times before.

“Good morning, Tom. I see you are adjusting just fine.” 

“Oh, that I am!” he exclaimed happily, putting down his heavy load and began lying the table, taking great care to get everything right.

“Is there anything else, you would like me to do for you?” he asked after he had done his work perfectly.

Seeing Sherlock's empty tobacco pouch I sent him to get some more shag. The boy grinned widely and dashed off and out of the house. From the recesses, I could hear Mrs Hudson remind him to make haste as they would leave for church shortly.

“Are you going, too?” my husband suddenly asked, halting once more in his endless pacing, that began to make me nervous.

“No,” I answered him and sat down at the table, helping myself to a cup of strong coffee and a biscuit. “It's not as if I need to be seen by anyone,” I added sarcastically.

“Did I marry an atheist then?” he teased.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, I was just wondering. Are you?”

“No, I just prefer the philosophical approach to the religious in general and yet, I am not an atheist. It is more the whole rigmarole and bigotry involved that annoy me, but without making me doubt my actual belief. After all, I prefer to think that going to church while acting badly towards others during the week won't make me a better person, while the other way around at least won't make me a worse.”

“No, it certainly won't.” Sherlock smiled, sitting down opposite of me.

“I take it you have made some progress.” I queried.

“I might have. I was mainly brooding over how to proceed. - Will you join me on a little outing?”

“Where to?”

“Amersham Prison.”

“On a Sunday?” I cried out in astonishment.

“It is not, as if the people we are going to visit will be out and about...” he pointed out. “So, Sunday is as convenient as any other day.”

“I guess you are right,” I admitted. “But what do you expect to find out there?”

“I am not sure yet. Perhaps nothing.” He got up to put on his boots. “But then again, we might find out everything.”

xxx

One and a half hours later, we reached the small market town of Amersham. It was pretty close to London and the trains were regular enough for commuters going into town on a daily basis to return in the evening. On our way there, my husband had explained it's significance as a prison town as well, as I had never heard of a goal there in the first place.

“It is but a small penitentiary,” he had told me. “A place where the illustrious and rich go when a general prison might pose a danger for them – or vice versa.”

“Vice versa?”

“Yes. Like with these young rakes, wanting to overthrow parliament. To put them in with other criminals might give them an opportunity to recruit the plebs and underworld scum they normally would never meet, due to their elevated status. And despite them thinking themselves elite, I would be very much surprised, if they would have refused some 'infantry' help in their purpose.”

“How would they manage to do that in a prison?” I wondered.

“You might be surprised to hear, that there is hardly a place in this country, where more crime is permitted, than in an English prison.”

I indeed had not had any idea about that and so, by the time we had reached the small and unassuming penitentiary, I was rather timid to enter. But as usual, my curiosity got the better of me. 

It was very fortunate, that Sherlock's name was so well known and we met with little resistance from the officials. The welcome by the prisoners was much less cordial, though. Being led into the room one by one had made them suspicious as to the purpose of our visit and I could all but feel their apathy.

The first of the men that was led into the visitors' room, was the honourable Theodore Moore. He was a stout little man, looking several years younger than he was. - At the tender age of five and twenty. But his clean-shaven, round face with the Cherub cheeks made him look like an oversized baby. - And an ugly one at that. He looked at us in obvious disdain, feeling a superiority that was particularly ridiculous considering that he was facing two people with a pedigree equal to his own, though with decidedly less money at their disposal, but instead with a higher level of education. 

“What is it you want?” he asked, without as much as greeting us, and his voice sounded at odds with his appearance, being a deep baritone.

“Oh, only a little interview about the 24th of June '93, sir,” Sherlock answered in a nonchalant voice, smiling sweetly at the prisoner.

“You can go and...” he thundered, only stopping his rude reply when his eyes settled on me.

“Oh, there is no need for profanity, Mr Moore. And I am actually not interested in the actual assassination attempt, but rather would like to know, if you saw something unusual that day in the park?”

Moore stared at his opposite as if he had just grown a second head.

“Excuse me?” he at last stammered.

“Oh, you heard me right, Mr Moore.” Sherlock still smiled.

“No, I don't think I saw anything extraordinary that day.”

“How did you all get to Hyde Park that day?” Sherlock suddenly asked, catching Moore as well as myself completely off hand.

“By carriage, of course!” the baby-faced prisoner exclaimed.

“Whose?”

“Joe – Joseph Lopscombe's,” he replied without thinking.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and from the way his eyes sparkled, I knew he was onto something.

“Joseph Lopscombe?”

The prisoner paled as he realised what he had just said. And then knowing there was no way back, he dashed forward, answering: “Yes, we borrowed it of him. He is the younger brother of Randolph. He had no idea, what we were up to, I am sure about that. He is not one of us.”

“You would not know where to find him?”

“No.”

“Thank you, that'll be all.” Sherlock dismissed him and ringing for the warden, the prisoner was promptly removed from our presence.

Next Sherlock asked to see the man Mallet and as the guard shuffled away to retrieve him, I asked: “Why not Lopscombe?”

“Because I think it might be wisest to question him last. We know they have arrived in a carriage that belonged to his brother, but I doubt he would admit to it quite as easy as the others would. I prefer to have some more data, before confronting him.”

That sounded plausible.

xxx

Gregory Mallet was a different cast from his meek and fleshy partner in crime. Tall, muscular and with a Greek profile, he would have looked more human had he been worked in marble. His cold blue eyes stared at us unblinking and only the slightest hint of his contempt broke through his unfathomable features. But though his expression never faltered, his choice of words was so markedly polite, that it was clear just how little he thought of us.

“Good morning, Mr Holmes. - Madam,” he bowed his head by a fraction, barely visible. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“To my acute sense of curiosity,” Sherlock answered, still smiling cheerfully and at that moment he reminded me of a snake hypnotising the rabbit it was about to devour. - Though a most formidable rabbit this was!

“You, of course, remember the 24th of June 1893…?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Was there anything that struck you as out of place? - Other than your own and your friends' actions?”

“Only that a pigeon had soiled Lord Maynard's overcoat and hat. I thought it quite funny.” Not even a hint of a smile crossed his features.

“Anything else? A shy horse, perhaps?”

“Only shy ladies.” His lip curled almost imperceptibly. “Or rather ladies acting shy.”

“Certainly.”

“Yes, because all women are acutely aware that acting shy in front of gentlemen will land them a husband...” I interjected without thinking, annoyed by the picture he drew of women, well knowing myself, that most young ladies indeed were rather timid around large crowds due to their secluded upbringing.

“Not every lady is a manly as you are, madam.” Mallet smiled – or rather sneered.

I curtsied and a smile, as sweet as that of my husbands before, now spread across my face: “Thank you for your compliment.”

“Careful, Mr Mallet, you'll find few men with a brain like hers. If she ever smiles at me like this, I would run. Fast!” His eyes gleamed with suppressed laughter.

“Then I must be a braver man than you seem to be, Mr Holmes.”

“No, only less sensible. There are instances, where bravery is misplaced. - Anyway, how did you get to Hyde Park?”

“I live across from the park, it was a nice day. - I walked, of course.”

“So you did not arrive with the others in Joseph Lopscombe's equipage?”

“No, I did not. I just said so.”

“But the others did? - All of them?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock turned around to call once more for the prison guard.

“That is all?” At long last, Gregory Mallet showed some emotion on his stony features.

“Is there more you would like to tell me after all?”

“No, I just thought...”

“Yes?” my husband had raised an eyebrow expectantly again.

“Why would it interest you, how we arrived at Hyde Park?”

“Why would it not?”

xxx

Richard Beaton, a man so unassuming he blended almost into the background of the grey prison wall, was nonetheless a refined man and his eyes were as warm and friendly as Mallets had been cold and foreboding. They twinkled from behind the gold-rimmed glasses, the man had sitting halfway down his nose as if he had just been reading something when he was called to us. The curious cheerfulness he sported was as out of place as his appearance was in it.

“Mr Holmes, Mrs Holmes, good day, to you!” he greeted heartily and for once it was on us to look taken aback.

“Mr Beaton.” 

“I hope you had a pleasant journey?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock answered warily.

“Very good. So, how may I help you?”

It was extremely difficult to believe, that he was the man who was supposed to throw the grenade. No-one would ever think this refined though unassuming man to be an assassin.

“Tell me about the 24th of June 1893, Mr Beaton.” Sherlock requested in equal politeness.

The man, a couple of years older than the other men had been, smiled apologetically.

“What is there I can tell you, that you don't already know, sir?”

“How did you end up with this lot, for example? You don't strike me as one of their fellow students.”

Beaton chuckled, taking off his glasses to clean them.

“I met them at the club – the Supremacy, that is - and I got to talk to them and had to agree with their argument. I still do. I am thoroughly convinced, that the House of Commons is unlawful and against the foundations of our country.”

“What foundations do you mean? Surely not the laws?”

“The noblest of laws. The Magna Charta, of course. Now, there the Lords were given the power to control the king's actions, so he would never be able to take from them ever again, what he ought not. The House of Commons was installed by a political terrorist, who brought nothing but war and destruction to this land – going so far, as to behead the rightful King and after years of devastation forced the successor to accept commoners to participate in politics. And look at today! They have more say, than the Lords.”

“With the historical background in mind, can you be surprised, that common folk – as you call them – refuse to be ruled by the House of Lords alone?” Once more I had felt the need to participate in the conversation.

“A woman, of course, will lack the knowledge necessary to assess the history thoroughly and form an accurate opinion. And politics are, of course, far out of your field,” he said, paternally, but yet the insult was obvious.

“I assure you, Mr Beaton, neither is the case, I took my history lessons together with my brother and am well versed in it and though I might not be particularly interested in politics, I still follow it meticulously.”

“Really? Then I suppose you are also for women's rights? Like higher education, the right to vote or allowing them to raise their children after separating from their husbands?”

“Of course, I have a medical degree myself. And I work at an institution that among simple health care, also takes care of 'fallen women'.”

“And you first appeared to be such a sensible person. What a shame!” he exclaimed in all earnestness.

I met Sherlock's gaze and could see the laughter in his grey eyes once again. At that moment, I really came to appreciate my husband and the freedom he allowed me. I could indeed not have wished for a better man at my side.

“Then, Mr Beaton, I wish you a wife without brains and a will of her own.” I smiled dryly, while my husband added, more towards me than the prisoner: “Personally, I cannot think of anything more tiring.” and then looking at Beaton again, resumed his inquiry.

“So, was there anything that struck you as odd then?”

“What I do not understand to this day, is, how the police managed to catch us.”

“What do you mean? Did they not catch you red-handed, about to throw the bomb?”

“No, I still had it in my pocket, when they approached me and had me arrested. It was the same with the others. So how could they have known?”

I could see, that Sherlock made a mental note, his brows knitted and his face alert in acute concentration.

“What do you think, Mr Beaton?” he asked, after a moment's contemplation.

“That someone must have grassed on us.”

“Any idea who that might be?”

“Perhaps. But you see, if I tell you a name and I am wrong in my suspicion, I would be no better than the one who told on us, would I?”

It became more and more clear, that there was a man that was remarkably clever. A man that was the perfect grey eminence from the courts of old – unassuming, observant, sly and very sharp. Just one thing still did not fit. Why would he be the one chosen to be the actual assassin? He did not seem quite able to aim far – or straight.

“Did you also arrive in Joseph Lopscombe's carriage?”

“Never heard of that man. But yes, I came in a carriage, of course. I live in Hampstead, it would be too far to walk. Randolph Lopscombe provided it, if I remember correctly, whether it was his own or his brothers, I don't know.”

“Thank you, Mr Beaton, that would be all. You have helped us a great deal.”

“Pleasure.”

Richard Beaton bowed politely, before himself calling to be brought back to his cell.

“Well, my dear,” Sherlock addressed me, as soon as the man had been removed. “That man is clever – but a horrible liar!”

I was puzzled for a moment, before the last sentences Beaton had spoken, came to mind.

“You mean when he claimed not to know a Joseph Lopscombe and yet knew he was Randolph's brother?”

My husband beamed at me proudly: “Exactly!”

“Do you think they were double-crossed?”

“I think it likely, now that I know Beaton was not actually caught with the bomb in his hand.”

“Could you draw the police file?”

“I have tried, but it is inaccessible. - That is why we are here, my dear.”

Grinning at the silly rhyme, he took my hand and kissed it.


	7. The worst of days - Part 7

The worst of days – Part 7

 

Sherlock:

A shy and brainless creature, my wife certainly was not – and still, had I first seen admiration on the three prisoners faces, as soon as she contributed to the conversation, the men became wary, and were fortunately all too glad, to return their attentions to me and my questions. It appeared, that a pretty face seemed incompatible with a sharp brain in their opinion. - In mine it was a close to perfect combination – and in Harriet, it was all I had ever wanted.

The fourth and last of the prisoners was Randolph Lopscombe. As he was brought into the visitors' room, he looked tired and worn and it was apparent, that his health was declining. His skin had a sickly yellowish pallor, his lips were a brown hue, looking like stained old parchment and when he looked up, his eyes glanced unfocused and the sclera of them had the same unhealthy yellow shade his skin sported. Slumping down on a chair, he did not greet us, but bend forward, his head resting in his hands, as he had placed his elbows on his knees, cold sweat glistening on his forehead and he was obviously in pain.

“Hepatitis,” my wife said matter of factly, and then whispering into my ear: “By the looks of it, he has not many days left on this earth.”

“Then it was good, we came here today,” I muttered back.

“Mr Lopscombe, we are here to ask you a couple of questions.” I addressed him, after a few minutes of silence, only interrupted by the heavy breathing of the sick man.

“Then go ahead and ask, and then, have the decency and let me die in peace.”

I decided to go for the direct approach: “Your brother, was he involved in the assassination attempt?”

“That, sir, I cannot possibly answer.”

“You just have. You could not have been more clear, had you answered with a yes.”

Lopscombe looked up in alarm.

“You arrived at Hyde Park in his carriage. - A four-wheeler with four chestnut horses?”

“How on earth do you know that?”

“I did not. You just confirmed it though.”

“The devil I did!” the prisoner yelled, springing up from his chair on unsteady legs, making him sway dangerously. In a moment, Harriet was by his side, steadying him and pressing him back down onto his seat, keeping her hand on his shoulder.

“Does it have a coat of arms?”

“Don't you know?” Lopscombe sneered, which with his unnatural tint looked quite ghoulish. 

Ignoring his counter question, I carried on to the next issue: “Where is your brother now?”

“How would I know? He is his own master and has his own mistress and for all I care, he could be six feet under.”

“So no love lost between the two of you, then?”

“I did not say that.” he sighed, his eyes fixing on the hand lying on his shoulder as if he only now became aware of Harriet. He looked up and into her face and his features softened.

“How come you are not scared of me, miss?”

“Mrs. - Mrs Sherlock Holmes. And why would I be scared of you? I have seen these symptoms before in my line of work and I can see, you are dying,” she answered, looking neither disgusted nor sorry. 

“Open to a degree that is painful,” he retorted, though a gentle smile spread across his features.

“Would it help to sugar coat the inevitable truth?”

“No.”

“And would it not help, if you came clean about your crime at last?” she went on, almost innocently.

Lopscombe chuckled in amusement. And a sad and desolate amusement it was: “ I have come clean three days ago when I had a parson perform the last rites. As regards to me, you may ask anything you want, but whatever my brother has done to me, or to others, I will refuse to answer. I will not drag him into anything, whether he has a share in it, or not.”

“That I understand, sir. I would protect my brother as well, with everything that is in me. - Is he your older brother?”

“My younger by half an hour.”

Harriet and I looked at each other in astonishment.

“What I do not understand though is, why did you use his carriage, when you wanted to keep him out of trouble?”

“Because it was to be sold the week after and it would not have been connected to him easily anyway. He had been ordered to sell it by his fiancée's aunt, who, after she became infirm, had no use for the stately carriage any more. She gifted it to her niece and since she had no use for such a large and old-fashioned thing either, it was agreed that Joseph was to sell it and invest the revenue on behalf of his future wife.”

“But it had a coat of arms?” my wives voice now sounded almost disinterested and it was less pronounced like a question, but rather as a sideline remark.

“Yes, it had. Aunty Bethany comes from a Cornish line – the Brandons. Perhaps you have heard of General Brandon, who tried to force a separation from Devon in 1726?”

“I think I might have. Was that not the incident, where the Cornish tried to pull down the bridge across the River Plym that runs between Devonshire and Cornwall?”

“No, that is another incident, all together. The general marched on Exeter with a bunch of one hundred and fifty farmers daughters, whom he had promised among other things, to wed them.”

“All hundred and fifty? He must have been insane!” I mumbled, though, from the grins on Harriet's and Lopscombe's faces, I was certain they had heard me.

“Yes, to all of them. Needless to say, that once the word spread among the young ladies, there was no need for an army to dispel the group of marauders, as they took it into their own hands.”

“So they did not make it to Exeter?”

“No, they did not even make it to Tavistock.”

“So, not much of a heroic deed after all.”

“No. He is admittedly the least honourable man of the family, but unfortunately also the most famous. - At least in the west country.”

“Are you done with your story time, yet?” I interrupted the very illuminating conversation.

“Jealous of a dying man?” Lopscombe quipped, looking amused.

“By no means. But it is past midday and I am getting hungry.” I replied, truthfully, though that had not been the reason, why I wanted this conversation to end. He had given us very useful information and I was eager to return to London and check up on it. It seemed almost to tie in too well with the rest of the hypothesis I had formed. 

The ill man grinned jovially at us and it occurred to me, that once he must have been an excellent fellow, despite his political views. 

“Then take this wonderful wife of yours and enjoy your meal. - But I swear you were jealous there for a bit.”

“I would be a bad husband if I liked other men flirting with my wife,” I remarked, half in jest.

When we left, Lopscombe was still sitting in his chair, and once more he had his head cradled in his propped up hands. He looked tired and worn.

“How long would you estimate, he has to live?” I asked as we stepped into the drizzle outside.

“Not many weeks. Perhaps a month, or a little more.”

xxx

We took lunch at a small inn across the street from Amersham station, as we had missed our train by mere minutes, having struggled to get a cab to bring us there. The sandwiches they served, were decent, as was the tea - Harriet and I faced one another, having taken a table in a small recess that was overlooking the humble station. 

“I take it, you have gotten some of your questions answered,” my wife remarked when the waiter had left us in peace at long last.

“Yes. Almost all of them.” I answered. “Now I just need to find the other Lopscombe twin.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I'll have my methods. - And my informants in all classes of society. It might get tricky, but I am confident that it is not impossible.”

“Well, then I am glad, you have basically solved this case.”

I smiled at her faith in me, admitting though, that at the moment it was nothing but a theory and that to actually solve the case, I would need to have definitive proof, which I currently did not.

“Why do you think, the police never heard of Joseph Lopscombe?” she carried on.

“I am not sure they have never heard of him, but we asked the one question, the police has never even thought about. ”

“How they arrived at Hyde Park?”

“Exactly! I was interested in finding a carriage, so I did enquire after one. That is what I meant when I said that sometimes just a change of perspective is needed.”

She pondered on that for a few minutes, silently munching on her sandwich.

“Do you think, they have been double-crossed?” she eventually asked.

“What do you think?”

“It appears likely. Especially after Beaton's statement, that he was not caught with the bomb in his hand, but in his pocket. How else would the police have known? They do not generally search the crowd.”

“Yes, how?” I mused.

“But if they suspect Joseph Lopscombe to be the traitor, why do they not tell the police, but let him get off?”

Again a smile spread across my face. Harriet was bright, but she still would need to be more attentive to detail. - Or perhaps it was just that she was yet lacking in knowledge in this unfamiliar field.

“First of all, it would have been unnecessary to inform the police, as in all likeliness, they already know that. Most times in exchange for such information, the informant is granted freedom. And secondly, because if they point out Lopscombe, he will have the power of telling on the rest. And on top of that, they may perhaps not be sure themselves, if he is the traitor or not. Remember, at least one other man must have gotten away.”

Harriet contemplated my words, while I called for the waiter to settle our bill, as it was time to leave. It was only on the train, that she spoke again: “Of course! The advertisement in The Times! J. L. could be Joseph Lopscombe. But why would he hide, when he was granted freedom by the police?”

“That, my dear, is the prize question. Along with where to find him. - One possibility is, of course, that one of the group did actually find out and has pledged to avenge the others. It might explain, why J. L. only advertised several days after the event.”

“It was two weeks later.” my wife added, deep in thought herself.

“And we know of at least one man that got away officially.”

“Thomas Jennings.”

I looked up in astonishment, as this was so very different from working with Watson. Though not slow himself, he rarely managed to connect the dots quite in as efficient a manner as Harriet did instinctively. 

“Are you sure, you are doing this for the first time, my love?” I quipped, wanting to kiss her, as a blush spread across her face at the unexpected compliment and I wondered how often she had been reprimanded for being an intelligent woman.

“The second time, Sherlock, the second time.” she laughed.

“But yes, Thomas Jennings I meant. And he is doing anything but lying low. So it is not far-fetched to assume, he is not the one that the message was intended for.”

xxx

We arrived home in the late afternoon, only shortly before Watson returned from his own outing. Harriet and I had just sat down on the sofa, snuggling up to one another, enjoying the warmth of the fireplace and refreshing ourselves with a steaming cup of tea, when he entered the sitting room, looking tired, but happier than I had seen him in a while.

“Holmes! Good evening. - Mrs Holmes.” he greeted and then bursting out with seeming relief: “Mary will return in a fortnight. Whatever did you say to her, Holmes, that she is so happy to return to my side, when before she was so reluctant?”

“That, dear fellow, is my secret.” 

“We spoke a lot. - About Henry and the accident and her paralysis. Can you believe it, but she thought I would not mourn our baby?”

“I can. She told me so. But that is indeed is good news, would you care for some more?” I asked, wincing, as Harriet pinched my side painfully and looking at me, she shook her head almost imperceptibly, mouthing: “Don't!”

But it was too late then. I had made the blunder and now I could not retreat, as the doctor asked eagerly: “You have found something?”

“We might have,” I answered in an elusive manner.

“Then tell me!” 

Inwardly I sighed, summarising what we had heard and learned that day. Watson sat in his armchair across from us, sponging up every word I said, while Harriet had gotten up and had walked over to the window, looking out into the gloom of an early November evening. 

My friend looked sceptical at first, but soon his scepticism was replaced by anger and once more by despair.

“So my son had to die because a group of radicals tried to kill the Prime Minister because they could not stand the course history has taken two hundred years ago? That is so pathetic! But I have to say, that as much as I value our Prime Minister, I would have preferred it if he had been killed.”

“That, Watson, is more than understandable. I doubt any parent would feel otherwise.”

From the recesses of the dimly lit room Harriet quietly said: “And yet, I would have preferred, if there had been no deaths at all.”

“That would indeed have been most ideal,” I answered, my eyes fixed on my friend. And at long last, I saw a tear run down his cheek, while another welled up in his eye. He tried to blink it away, but it would flow freely at long last. The pain, the anger, the loneliness and now the new found hope were at this point, too much to be borne, and what had been suppressed for almost one and a half years, now burst to the surface. Too mentally exhausted, my friend now cried unabashed like a little child, his shoulders slumped, hands covering his face, shaken by grief so justly felt.

I was myself so perplexed by his reaction, that I did not realise that Harriet had approached me, and only when she put her hand on my arm softly and whispered into my ear that we should retreat for the moment, did I move.

Leaving the mourning man behind for the moment, we closed the bedroom door behind us.

“That, Sherlock, was almost unfeeling!” Harriet told me off, hands on her hips and her pretty face angry, eyes sparkling.

“But he wanted to know...” I tried to defend myself, knowing she had a point.

“You managed to catch him at a most unguarded moment. Of course, he wanted to know. And he is entitled to know. But the time was most unwisely chosen.”

“I know. I am sorry,” At that moment I felt like a little boy, wanting nothing more than his mother's forgiveness. I received it promptly when she took my face into her hands and kissed me gently.

“You are forgiven, Sherlock.”

“Harriet?” I inquired carefully, “Would you mind if I visit my club?”

“You want to start your search for Lopscombe even tonight?”

“Have I become this easy to read?”

“No, but why else would you want to go? - Apart from perhaps wanting to get away from that awful wife of yours?”

“I only have one wife and if I could, I would take her to the club with me, to make all the other men jealous of my good fortune.”

“Who knew you were such a charmer?” she teased. “And go by all means, if you want to. - But Sherlock, be careful, please!”


	8. The worst of days - Part 8

The worst of days – Part 8

 

Harriet:

As I watched my husband prepare for an evening out, I was worried, though I did not know why. Going to the club was a perfectly harmless business, not much different from going to the theatre. But at the back of my mind, the knowledge, that he might get into someone's way, nagged me. Only a week ago I had seen that a desperate creature would stop at nothing. But at last I could claim to have shot a monster disguised as a woman and I was surprised myself, how little I was bothered by the thought of having killed someone.

Quietly opening the door to the sitting room, I saw the doctor leaning back in his chair, worn and exhausted, but no longer crying. Instead, he stared into the fire in contemplation and his face showed something akin to relief. Perhaps Sherlock had found the right moment to tell him, after all. Perhaps the man's emotions had needed the floodgate thus created.

I walked into the room decidedly, turning up the gas lighting and pouring a glass of brandy, handing it to the mourning man.

“I am so sorry for my outburst...” he began, looking embarrassed.

“There is nothing to be sorry for, Doctor Watson,” I assured him.

“No, perhaps not,” he admitted, taking a large gulp of the spirit. “And you know, it might sound weird, but I do feel better now. As if a huge weight was lifted off my chest.”

“That I do believe you.”

“Where is your husband? I hope he is not hiding from me.” he looked at the direction of the bedroom door as if expecting his friend to appear at any moment.

“He is gone to his club, trying to find Lopscombe,” I answered.

“He never gives up, does he?” 

I laughed, remarking, that he would know better than I if that were the case.

“You know, the two of you look so comfortable together, I already find it hard to believe, that once I thought my friend to be a confirmed bachelor.”

“It is indeed odd to think, I have only known him for ten days, now. It seems like a lifetime – and in a good sense at that.” I confessed, when a shy tap on the door, interrupted our reminiscence. 

Carefully Tom stuck his head in, looking concerned at the doctor and I realised, he must have come in earlier, when the man had still been crying.

“Would you like dinner to be served?” he asked when he saw I was present as well.

“That would be very nice, Tom. - Mr Holmes has gone out, by the way.”

Dinner was served and Doctor Watson and I talked about his wives return.

“Will you need help with setting up the house again?” I asked.

“Yes, and I need to find a maid and a nurse.”

“Then let me know when you need a hand,” I offered. “Oh, and perhaps Sherlock can give you a hand in moving the furniture around, so your wife won't have any trouble moving around in a wheelchair.”

His face broke into an amused smile

“You think it a good idea to involve that man in manual labour?”

“He told me he has posed as a plumber once, though he did not want to go into any particulars there – I presume a lady was involved, that might explain his reluctance with going into detail - and also, that he had helped out as a gardener and a carpenter on occasion to gather information. Moving furniture should be easy enough then.”

The doctor looked perplexed, before asking: “And he has actually worked in these jobs? I always thought he had just posed as a man of these professions.”

“You can hardly pose as a plumber when you have not the foggiest how to repair a drain,” I argued. 

“You might have a point there...”

“So, just let us know.”

xxx

It was late at night, when my husband stepped into the living room, making me jump to my feet the instance that I saw him. With a feeling of uneasiness I had waited up and the moment I saw him my worst suspicions seemed confirmed. His nose was bloody, he sported a black eye and a swollen lip and ears and his knuckles were cracked as if he had partaken in a boxing fight. Even the cut on his thumb had once more bled through the thin layer of cotton gauze. 

“Oh, you are still up?” he exclaimed, looking surprised. 

“I could not sleep. I was worried and the way you look, I seemed to have every reason to.” 

He looked perplexed then burst out laughing.

“Do I really look as scary as your reaction suggests?” pulling me into his arms he manoeuvred us over to the high board, which had a mirror backing, to see for himself.

“Oh, dear!” he chuckled, “I am sorry to have given you a fright, it was not my intention, I thought you would be sleeping and I would have cleaned myself up before joining you.”

“Sherlock, you look as if you have been caught in a fight. Do you mean to say all of this is just makeup?”

“No, it's not makeup and yes, I got into a fight – of sorts. I won it fair and square, by the way.”

“Of sorts?!” I snorted in disbelief.

“I met an old friend of mine at the club. We got talking and he had heard of the Lopscombe brothers, telling me they had a certain hobby – which coincided with a past time I indulged in in my younger years.”

I raised an expectant eyebrow.

“Boxing,” he explained. “So, Parker – that is the friend I mentioned - and I went over to the Supremacy Club, at which he, fortunately, is a member, also.”

“Wasn't that the club, where Beaton met the others?”

“Exactly. And the Supremacy has a lot of attractions to offer – from a well-stocked library to gaming tables, as well as a fencing arena and a boxing ring.”

We had sat down and I had pulled out my handkerchief to at least stop his thumb from bleeding any further.

“Anyway, Parker has a bit of a gambling habit and he had often bet on fights when in the club. I agreed to get into the ring in an exchange for information. I doubt the young gentleman I fought against had thought he might end up being the one to be counted out. But he was just too impatient. It was a relatively easy fight, considering he was about ten years my junior.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it.” I sighed. “But I think I should get some cold water, some dressings and a sponge to clean you up.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“And then you can tell me whether it was worth scaring your wife or not.”

xxx

Sherlock:

I felt bad for having forced this reaction from my friend and when Harriet told me off, quite justly as I have to admit, I saw the need to make amends, by searching for the man, I was by now almost certain, had caused the accident. It was not more but a feeling at this point, but assessing the evidence I had, it was a logical conclusion at any rate.

Leaving Harriet to deal with the devastated man, did nothing to make me feel any better, and still, when I had climbed into the Hansom to get to my Club down Pall Mall, a stone's throw from the Diogenes, the anticipation of what might await me, got the better of my emotional dilemma.

I alighted at the Winthrop's Gentleman's Club, where I went but rarely. I, in general, preferred my own home to the formality of a sociable club, but I also saw the need for the connections an establishment like this afforded me. In this instance I was lucky. As soon as I entered, an exclamation of surprise echoed through the entrance hall, and the very man I had hoped to meet with, came into view as he descended the stairs.

“Sherlock Holmes!” a man in his early forties cried, walking towards me with an outstretched hand. “I never thought I would see you again.”

“Parker, how are you?” I greeted the fellow, a man I had first met when setting up my business a good fifteen years ago.

“Very, well, very well, thank you. I thought I saw a ghost when you just walked in. Were you not supposed to be dead?”

Inviting him to a glass of good Whiskey I explained the situation.

“You have always been a strange man, Holmes,” he remarked, ordering himself another glass and asking if I wanted one, too. I declined, seeing the necessity to keep my wits together and getting drunk would not do.

“Are you still out and about in society much?” I asked him offhand, as he drained his second tumbler.

“You know it is my job, Holmes. The papers pay good money for the latest news on who has done this and who has done that. I still owe you for your advice of freelancing for the press. This way I manage to get the best price with the least effort.”

“That is very convenient because I will need some information from you.” 

“I am all ears.” he leaned forward, looking at least as sober as myself, though I doubted he had only just begun with his brandy.

When I had finished my tale he pondered for a while, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his wing-backed chair. 

“I think I have met both men,” he answered, at last, ordering himself yet another glass, this time mixed with soda. “One, if I remember it right, got arrested, the other I don't know, I haven't seen either in a while.”

“Yes, Randolph Lopscombe is imprisoned for treason.”

“I could never keep them apart, I have to admit. They are twins – identical ones. Just one was more of a rogue, while the other was quite the gentleman.”

“I thought as much. When have you met the other the last time?”

“About the same time his brother got arrested. Perhaps July '93.”

“So you saw him after his brother's arrest?”

“Yes, I did, actually. I had taken him to be his brother and asked him if he had managed to escape the police after all. He looked quite taken aback, thinking of it.”

“And after that?”

“He seemed to have disappeared from society.”

“He was engaged to a young lady, do you know what happened to her?”

“Miss Decker was her name, pretty little thing. It was quite a bit of a scandal. You know, she was engaged to the other brother first?”

That would explain Randolph Lopscombe's contempt towards his brother Joseph.

“Do you know what had led to this change of circumstances?”

“No, I could never find out. Perhaps she had kissed the wrong twin? Wouldn't surprise me, as said, it was difficult to tell who was who.”

“When was the engagement broken off?” 

“Must have been a couple of months before the arrest and the respective disappearance.”

“And when did she get engaged to the other Lopscombe twin?”

“Oh, only a few weeks later. That is why it was so scandalous.”

Now it was on me to contemplate what I had just heard. I caught myself playing with my wedding ring, as my thoughts tried to clear themselves.

“Where did you meet them usually?” I at last asked.

“The Supremacy down St. James Street.” 

“Are you a member?”

“Yes,” he answered to my delight.

“Any chance you could introduce me there?”

“Sure. One is allowed to bring guests.”

“Good. May I settle your bill?”

“I'd prefer to see you in the ring once more. I am in the mood for a little wager. I'll pay the bill here and you indulge me with aiming four fists and feet at another man's upper half.”

“Still prone to your old vices I see.”

He laughed, shrugging his shoulders in a mock apology. “What is a man to do? And I am fortunate enough not to have a troubling wife waiting for me at home. I am a free man and why should I not enjoy my freedom?”

“Don't you feel lonely coming home to an empty bed?” I knew his reputation all too well, it seemed.

“Who says my bed is empty at night?” was the reply, accompanied by a saucy smirk. “I am not as stuck up as you are.”

“Then it is fortunate that your bed is kept warm by your concubine and mine by my wife. So it suits either lifestyle.” I quipped, making him gape at me in surprise. “So, you want me to fight? Actually why not? I am in the mood for a bit of action. Let's go.”

We walked the short distance to the Supremacy Club, passing the Diogenes where I spotted my own brother sitting in a window seat, watching the world outside, making his acute observations and enjoying his much-valued peace and silence. I tapped my hat to greet him and he gave a slight nod of acknowledgement.

“This is the only club that will not have me,” Parker grumbled. “But you have to apply and then you are questioned by one or other of the founders and one has to abide by so many rules it is ridiculous. - That chap you have just greeted interviewed me, he made me feel like a schoolboy being told off by the headmaster himself”

“Yes, he makes me feel like that most of the time.”

“You know him then? Could you not put in a good word for me?” Parker begged.

Shaking my head, I declined the request: “I can imagine that it would get very tedious for you, to spend even just one hour without any conversation, and I dare say, you would not like it very much either, to be completely ignored by the other club members – as that is one of their rules.”

He sighed, nodding in agreement. “Yes, I reckon you are right, Holmes. And still, in my line of work, I would have appreciated it.”

“There is not much gossiping going on in the Diogenes Club,” I assured him, as we neared our destination.

Christopher Parker sighed once more, before resigning himself to his fate of never becoming a member of the Diogenes Club at 79 Pall Mall, London, Whitehall.


	9. The worst of days - Part 9

The worst of days – Part 9

 

Sherlock:

The Supremacy Club was housed in a stately building that bordered the pompous. It was a far cry from the plain and unassuming interior of the Diogenes, with its nooks and crannies, that afforded the privacy its members valued so greatly - and even further from the cosy masculine shabbiness of the Winthrop's, with its polished wooden floors, the dark panelling on the walls and the rather dim gas lighting. The armchairs there were extremely comfortable, but it was clear that they had served many a generation, the library was a rare blend of literature and smut and while playing for money was frowned upon, the snooker tables were hard to get by. 

None of this, applied to the Supremacy. This was a club where young rich men went, to gain a reckless reputation, and older ones, to keep this repute. From the rooms, that were accessible only from the back, via a sheltered mews, and that could be hired, to enjoy an amorous tête-à-tête with one's mistress, to the card tables, where the stakes were high and the losses even higher, down to the said fencing piste, and the boxing ring. The furnishings were in a rich oriental style, and the walls and ceiling were worked with plaster frills and follies, that, I guessed, were supposed to imitate buildings like the Taj Mahal. - With little to no success. I had seen the original in my travels and had wondered at its breathtaking beauty. This though was so plump, it did not even speak remotely of craftsmanship.

“Lovely place,” I remarked sarcastically.

“Good for gossip,” my companion grinned. “If you prefer a more tasteful surrounding, I recommend the brothel down the road.”

“Is there anything apart from betting, gossiping and …?” I sighed, making a suggestive gesture with my hands, leaving no doubt as to what I had meant, though making sure at the same time it was not too obvious a reference.

“No.”

“I had feared as much.” 

“I earn my money with it,” he tried to justify himself.

“Actually, you spend your money on it,” I corrected him, handing the butler my hat and coat.

Showing me around, I refused to sit down at the card tables, where I spotted young Jennings amongst others, equally illustrious. The young noble was a handsome man with a lot of charisma and I was not surprised, that a man like him would manage to capture others with his wit and charm, no matter what nonsense he told them. 

“Lopscombe is not here.” Parker ascertained as we had made our first round through the whole of the building – apart from the said private chambers that is. But I doubted very much, he would be there, after he had not been seen at the expensive establishment in more than a year.

“Could you perhaps introduce me to a couple of men, who have been around the Lopscombe brothers?”

“There is young Jennings,” he answered off hand, pointing towards the man.

“I prefer if we could leave him out of this. I know he is in league with them, but as I don't know yet, what part he has played back then, I would suggest, we try and avoid him as much as is possible for the time being.”

Parker shrugged his shoulders, looking around him, but not seeing anybody who might be able to help us out. 

“Let's go down to the boxing ring again. At least one of them liked this sport and I have seen him in the ring himself more than once. I just don't know which of the brothers it was.”

“Be honest, you just want to humiliate me,” I growled, accepting my fate, well knowing I would not be able to back out of it without suffering the consequences at one point or another. And Parker was too valuable an informant to anger. He just grinned triumphantly.

So, while I prepared for the fight that I had promised Parker in exchange for him settling our bill and helping me gather the information I required, the man himself made his enquiries. How he managed to get any information, will always remain a mystery to me, as he was neither subtle not discreet. But perhaps this indiscretion was what made people give away their knowledge so freely, so they would not find themselves in the tabloids, being misrepresented. Watching them, while taking off my frock coat, waistcoat, collar and shirt along with my shoes and socks, I thought to myself that it might just as well be likely, that most of them were too drunk already, to realise, that they were interrogated.

I was weighed and assigned to an opponent, that had yet to arrive. Some of the men eyed me suspiciously, some with a lame smile on their vacant faces. I was a good ten years older than the other athletes, and I was not in as good a shape as I had once been, but I knew, that more important than a massive bulk, a youthful stance and a big lip, was to be observant of the opponent as to foresee his actions and to know where to place one's hits, to be quick on one's feet and always to be ready to duck out of the way of the other one's fists. - And at least, I had the advantage of real-life experience.

To say I was surprised when none other than Thomas Jennings arrived and was assigned my partner would have been an understatement. I had not thought of this possibility and now I could hardly avoid the man without throwing the towel.

I had been wise enough though, to once more resort to the alias of Hendrik Sigerson and I hoped that Jennings was not a fan of Doctor Watson's publications, that on occasion could be a real bother.

Almost half an hour passed, in which we waited for the ongoing fight to end. It had long lost its appeal to the audience as both men were almost equally strong, equally good and equally drunk and it was only, when one of them threw up inside the ring after a kick to his abdomen, that the referee and the spectators decided, that they had enough of them. A handsome maid was called to clean up the mess, all the while being grabbed by wanton men. When one of them pulled her onto his lap, shoving his tongue into her mouth and almost exposing her while sliding his hands underneath her skirt, while she tried to get away from him, I had enough – and so had Jennings. Prying her free, we both took hold of one arm and towed the blackguard out of the room and shoved him towards the stairs.

“Nice to see, I have a decent opponent,” Jennings remarked, as we walked back into the fighting hall, offering me his hand.

“Thomas Jennings esquire.” he introduced himself.

“Hendrik Sigerson,” I answered, taking his hand.

“The diplomat?” he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes.”

“I liked your piece about the situation in Tibet. I have quite a mind to go there myself.”

“Thank you,” I answered politely.

“You've come with Christopher Parker?” he asked his lip curling in distaste at my companion.

“I have, we know each other from way back. I have done some boxing in my youth and he persuaded me to have a go at it once again.”

“You look up to it.”

“I am,” I replied quietly, smiling serenely.

Jennings gave a hearty laugh, before climbing over the ropes of the ring. I followed and both of us waited for the referee to signal for the fight to begin. 

Jennings was a good fighter, but he was impatient. And even though he had complimented me on my fitness, he had completely underestimated me as an opponent. Keeping a close watch on his moves, I managed to dodge the heaviest blows and only once in a while did he succeed to land a strike. I let him be, hardly moving a muscle, waiting patiently till he was exhausted by his exploits of strength. When, after about ten minutes where he had incessantly tried to either hit or kick me, he began to tire, I knew my time had come. For him, my right must have come out of the blue. I could hear the crowd gasp in unison, as the young man stumbled back, almost knocked off his feet. I moved my weight onto one foot and balancing my body out, I jumped up and onto the other foot, kicking him into his chest with the one my weight had rested on, swivelling around my own axis. Only the railing held him upright at this point, while the spectators now cheered, sitting on the edge of their chairs. They had not thought this sinewy 'old' man to be much of a fighter. Eventually, Jennings pushed forward again, running towards me, with his head lowered, which of course was a bad mistake, as he was completely unaware of what my next action might be. Stepping aside swiftly, I lifted my leg just in time to hit his upper body once again, expecting the impact, that he did not, knocking him off his feet in consequence. 

Within twenty minutes he was counted out and I had enough of this spectacle. After having washed myself sparsely and getting dressed again, Thomas Jennings came towards me, a grin on his young and bloody face.

“That teaches me to underestimate an older man. You, sir, have got it in you!”

“Thank you,” I mumbled, somewhat embarrassed. 

“I had a friend who was really good at this, you would have liked fighting him. He would have been a challenge.”

“He died?”

“Disappeared.”

“Ah.” I forced myself not to show too much interest, fixing my collar and cravat. 

“Can I invite you to a glass of whatever you prefer?” Jennings offered, being an astonishingly good loser.

“Then I have a draught.”

He laughed as cheerful as was possible with a split lower lip and a bruised rib. “Man, you are easy to satisfy. Everyone else would have chosen the most expensive stuff possible.”

“Only because it is expensive does not necessarily mean it is palatable,” I replied, realising I had smeared my shirt with my own blood as my thumb had begun bleeding once more. Harriet would be thrilled and this time would be insisting on stitching it up. Oh, joy!

I looked around me, but could not spot Parker anywhere.

“Oh, that friend of yours has made it upstairs, no doubt to lose the winnings he just had on the card table. He was wise enough to bet on you.”

“Typical.”

xxx

“You said you knew a man who fought really well?” I asked as I sat at the bar with Jennings, drinking my well-deserved pint.

“Yes. Joe Lopscombe.”

“You said he disappeared? Is that not rather unusual?”

“I suppose he had his reasons. You know, with him, his fiancée disappeared also. Perhaps he killed her and needed to leave? Who knows?”

I looked at him warily. Something was off. 

“Was he jealous, then?” I asked, for lack of a better question at hand.

“Not particularly. But then, women can do that to you, I presume. Unless of course one day, Sherlock Holmes might look into the matter, I doubt we will ever find out.”

His smile was most disarming. He knew! And now he was playing cat and mouse. - Or so I thought. Sighing Thomas Jennings downed his pint, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand without ceremony or pretence. 

“Can we just leave this charade, Mr Holmes? I am tired of this game. I have played it for more than a year and I am sick of it.”

“All right then. What do you know about Joseph Lopscombe's part in the attempted assassination of the Prime Minister?”

“He was all for it. No matter what his brother and I said. He was so keen on proving himself to be a revolutionary, he lost all sense of reason. In the end, Randolph agreed to join the group to keep a close watch on the rest of them. So he went with them, pointing out the assassins to the police when they arrived on the scene.”

“Who called the police?”

“I did,” he told me matter of factly, ordering himself another beer.

“Then who came up with the plan in the first place?”

“Me, actually. But only as a hypothesis. Gods, never did I think they would take my ramblings serious! I was angry, yes. But kill a man? - No!”

“So who instigated to go through with it then?”

“The grey eminence.”

“Beaton?” I remembered the unassuming man with the intelligent eyes and the engaging manners. 

“ I see you have met him.” 

“I have.”

I lit a cigarette and offered one to my companion, who took it gratefully.

“Thank you.”

“Pleasure. So, if Randolph Lopscombe helped the police, how did he end up in jail?”

“Because, as you might have been told, he and his brother are identical twins. There is but one difference to tell them apart. Joseph had broken the little finger of his left hand when a child and ever since it is permanently bent and stiff.” 

He held up his left hand and tried to imitate the defect. 

“Joseph made the police believe he was Randolph and dashed off in his carriage, while Randolph was arrested in his brother's stead.”

“Why was it not cleared up?”

“Randolph asked to leave him be. I respected his request. He claimed, that his brother had wanted to protect him and that it was really him, Randolph, who was the conspirator.”

“You know he is dying?” I looked at the man closely.

“Yes. He was diagnosed with a cancerous growth affecting his liver a little more than two years back. I am surprised he has managed to cling to life for so long. - I doubt neither did he.”

“The symptoms would resemble those of hepatitis, I presume?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I would not know. You'll have to ask a doctor.”

“Where was Joseph living at the time? You said he dashed off in his carriage.”

“He lived at Gloucester Square. I cannot remember the full address.”

This was almost too good to be true. If that had been the man's address, he would most likely have taken the exact route that the carriage had taken, that had killed little Henry Watson. But still, I wanted the man! He had gotten away with the conspiracy, but I had no intention of letting him get away with manslaughter as well.

“Are you all right?” Jennings asked, looking surprised at my clenched fists and the angry expression on my face.

“Do you have any idea, why he might have disappeared? - I mean an actual idea not what you said earlier.”

“There might be two possible reasons. He might have thought his brother would come clean with the police, which would have landed him in prison, of course. After all, he double-crossed him and how would he know, after that, that his brother would still back him up? And secondly, I have to admit, that I threatened him with taking matters into my own hands, should he not own up to his deeds.”

“Why would Miss Decker disappear with him, though?” I wondered. Feeling none of the elation I normally felt, when a case came to its close.

“I have heard, she was in desperate need of marriage.” he indicated a growing stomach.

“Was that the reason, Randolph separated from her?”

“No, he let go of her, when he heard of his diagnosis. He was of the opinion he could not do that to her. And Joseph had always been sweet on Fanny Decker. It was apparently not very difficult to persuade her, to marry the other brother. Joseph though was less of the gentleman his brother is. Randolph is a great man, Mr Holmes. I miss him.”

His handsome face had clouded over and I could easily believe this to be true. Randolph Lopscombe had struck me as an upright man as well, a man of decent character and a great heart. He had every reason to be bitter about his brother. Stepping aside, so Joseph could marry the woman he wanted, trying to keep him from trouble and out of prison without as much as a thank you was something to be bitter about – more even, he had even done so, when his own brother had betrayed him. 

“I think I will go home.” I, at last, said, after we had sat in silence for almost a quarter of an hour. I had been wary at first, taking everything that Jennings had said with a grain of salt. But the more he had told me, the more I was convinced, that he spoke nothing but the absolute truth.

“Will I see you again?” the young man asked. “I believe you owe me a revenge.”

“Not in this establishment.” I answered, “But sure.”

“Good, I would like to learn some of your tricks.”

I chuckled. “There is only one trick, Mr Jennings – it's called patience.”

xxx

“So you can now be sure that it was Joseph Lopscombe, who has caused the accident,” Harriet stated, as I had finished my reminiscence.

“As good as, yes. But that still does not give me the man. I want that man to suffer, I have to admit.”

“Me, too.” my wife answered passionately, whilst pulling my waistcoat off my shoulder. “But how do we get to him?”

“I don't know,” I admitted, feeling much better at her adept treatment of my but slight injuries.

“And you really want to fight against Jennings again?” Harriet sighed.

“I realised I need some practice, so fighting against him is as well as against any other man.” 

“And you need to stay in practice, because?”

“Because I can easily get into trouble in my line of work. And believe it or not, my fighting skills are the only reason, I am still alive and not at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls.”

“If that is the case, you are allowed to practise. But please, Sherlock, give me a fair warning.”

I chuckled as she began massaging my strained muscles.


	10. The worst of days - Part 10

The worst of days – Part 10

 

Sherlock:

When I woke up the next morning, my muscles ached and my face felt swollen. Perhaps I was getting too old for this after all. Next to me, Harriet stirred, opening her lovely eyes. 

“In broad daylight, you look even worse...” she remarked while stretching herself.

“In broad daylight, you look even prettier...” I deadpanned. “I always liked beauty and the beast – I just never thought I would even like both characters combined in one and the same person.”

“You should not make fun of me,” she warned, a cheeky grin on her face, “as I know at this moment exactly where I have to touch you to have you flinch in pain, my dear.”

“Oh-oh.” I pulled her down to kiss her. “But it does prove my point.”

My wife broke out laughing into her hearty and honest laugh, climbing out of bed. And damn what a sight!

“So, what now?” she asked while dressing herself.

“I need to think it over. I want this Joseph Lopscombe. If only I had a clue as to where to find him.”

“How about the advertisement?”

“I have looked at it, but I cannot make sense of it yet. You are right though, it is the only lead we have currently. He seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth.”

After I had managed to get out of bed likewise and had dressed, slipping on my dressing gown, to curl up in my armchair in front of the fire to ponder on the problem, I remembered something else.

“How is Watson?”

“Feeling better. I have to admit, that perhaps your timing has not been so bad after all.”

“I am glad to hear it.” And I was. 

Lighting my pipe, I took Harriet's notes, reading through the second advertisement she had dug up.

To F. D.:   
24th of June was a disaster, almost got caught. J threatens me. Will need to go under, found position already. Join me at 79 PM tonight, at the back door, keep silent while waiting.   
J. L.

To F. D. - surely that could be Fanny Decker, - then J, could be Jennings, who did threaten Lopscombe, and J. L., of course, would be Joseph Lopscombe. That far all seemed rather simple. The 24th fit, as the day he almost got caught and which had ended in a disaster for his friends and his brother. And around two weeks later he had allegedly disappeared along with his bride. That also fit the message and had been confirmed by Parker as well as Jennings.

But what on earth could he mean with 79 PM? It could not have been a time, of course, as there was no hour like that. And where would they meet? What position had he found? It sounded as if he'd had made plans for an emergency escape, together with his sweetheart, long before it became necessary. At least in that respect, he seemed to be true.

Stuffing my pipe time and time again, I was only distantly aware of my wife, writing her letters, sitting at my desk. Once in a while, she refilled my cup of tea and once she opened the window, to get in some fresh air. It was already beginning to get dark outside, as it had begun drizzling around lunch time and a bout of London fog crept through the streets and alleyways. 

Eventually, Harriet sat across from me, picking up the scrap of paper, which had slipped to the floor sometime during my hours of meditation. 

Looking at her through hooded eyes, I saw she was making notes of her own, coming to the same conclusion about the initials, that I had and she as well, ended up getting stuck at 79 PM. But different from me, she began scribbling down possible words that could have been abbreviated by the PM.

Post-Mortem was crossed out as soon as it had been written, the same happened to Paris - Montparnasse. Portsmouth, Plymouth and Pimlico, stayed on the list though as well as Pall Mall. I gaped at my wife, mouth open, before springing to my feet, pulling her up and kissing her.

“What has gotten into you?” she asked, confused, and clinging to my dressing gown being off balanced by my sudden action.

“You, my dear, have just solved the case!” I announced.

“I did?” she glanced from me to the paper and back again. “How?” 

“Yes. By keeping it simple. My line of thought was far too complicated – yours is plain genius.”

“I am afraid, despite having solved the case, you will need to explain it to me...” She still looked perplexed.

“79 PM – 79 Pall Mall. Joseph Lopscombe has hidden in plain sight. I might have even passed him, not knowing.”

“You know the address then?” 

“It's the Diogenes Club. - Lopscombe even told Fanny Decker to keep silent while waiting...” I all but ran into the bedroom, to change into more formal clothing.

“Would you care to come with me?” I almost shouted at Harriet now. “But you will have to get into a suit of mine, and I dare say, a broad-rimmed hat is in order – with that face of yours, you will never be mistaken for a man… and we will need to cover your hair.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked in surprise.

“What does it sound like?” 

xxx

Harriet:  
Despite the fact that I had studied medicine and had been one woman among about a hundred male students, I had only twice worn men's attire and this was to be my third time. 

“We need to do something about your...” he pointed at my breasts. “Else it will look slightly suspicious.”

“Oh, really?” I laughed, taking a thin scarf of mine, to wrap it tightly around my upper torso. “Better?”

“For the disguise, yes, apart from that, decidedly not.”

After slipping into some underwear of his, and buttoning up his shirt, I stepped into the pair of grey trousers he had handed me, holding them up by a pair of braces. 

“How fortunate you are quite tall,” Sherlock remarked, as he bent down to roll up the pants legs on the inside to adjust them to my hight.

“It'll work with the trousers, but what about the coat?” 

“We'll see. I doubt anyone will notice that the clothes are too big for you – well, apart from Mycroft of course.”

“He is quite as bad as you are.” I agreed, reaching for the collar. I had liked the man, he was an oddity, sure, but in a good sense.

“Actually, he is worse. - Let me help you, this might be a bit tricky...” 

Fixing the collar and tying the cravat around my neck he handed me the waistcoat and stepping back he looked at me in a scrutinising manner. 

“I doubt anyone will see through your disguise, as long as you keep your head low and the hair hidden...” he assessed.

“And my mouth shut, I presume,” I added jokingly.

“Hm, yes, perhaps. But I will leave that to your own decision. Your voice is not so high pitched as to raise much suspicion. - And at any rate, the Diogenes has a strict no-talking policy, unless one is in the visitors' room - or in the kitchen. And since Mycroft, whom we are going to meet, will recognise you immediately anyway – and have my guts for it later on – you can actually talk as much as you like once we are in the visitors' room.”

“Splendid.”

I had begun to braid my hair around the crown of my head, to fit it underneath the bowler hat, we, at last, had settled on I should wear, while Sherlock had neatly placed a pair of glasses on my nose. 

“You look more convincing than I had thought.” 

When we, at last, stepped out of the house, we almost ran into Doctor Watson, who was just about to come in.

“Oh, sorry!” the man mumbled, not recognising me.

“Watson! You are just in time for the grand finale. Care to join us?”

The doctor looked at his friend in almost something like awe.

“You have found him?” he mouthed, barely audible.

“Yes, we have found him,” Sherlock told him, pointing from me to himself and back.

“Thank you, Mr - Mrs Holmes?” he gaped at me with his mouth ajar in astonishment.

“Well, I cannot take Harriet to the Diogenes Club otherwise.”

“You are going to the Diogenes? What will your brother say?”

“That is the practical thing about their self inflicted vow of silence – he cannot say anything while others are around.” my husband chuckled.

Doctor Watson first seemed perplexed, then began laughing till tears formed in his eyes – tears of laughter, fortunately. “The two of you are absolutely impossible. - If I may just drop my bag in the hallway?”

xxx

Entering the Club was almost surreal. No-one spoke a word and while all of us declined to hand over our outerwear, Sherlock scribbled our request onto a sheet of paper to be delivered to his brother. It was fortunate, that the younger Mr Holmes was, despite refusing to join the club himself, known well enough, to be led into the visitors' room without further ado. A moment later my brother in law joined us.

“I should have guessed it was your wife you have brought along when the footman stated there were three gentlemen wanting to see me – one being my brother.” he greeted as soon as his eyes fell upon us, a sly grin on his sharp features. “Well, you are not the first woman that has been smuggled in here...”

My husband gaped at his brother in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes. Though the other lady did not manage to keep silent for very long… - Which might have had something to do with her trying to find her husband after he hid himself in here due to a private affair.”

All four of us snickered.

“So, anyway, what brings you here?”

“Joseph Lopscombe.”

“Who is he?”

“Brother to Randolph. - You remember, the men trying to...”

“Yes, yes, of course, I am not senile, Sherlock, even though I might be the older one.”

Sherlock pulled out my notes and spread them on the table, explaining the situation.

“And so you see, I am pretty sure, the man has been hiding here ever since, posing as either a butler or footman.”

“So I take it, you now would like to see each and every male servant that is currently on the premises?”

“Yes. I did not know there was female staff, too.”

“Only a cook and a scullery maid. But they are not allowed out of the kitchen. And both of them are mute.” Mycroft Holmes replied dryly, his eyes darting over to me in a conspiratory manner.

“Of course.” his brother laughed. “But yes, you are right, I would indeed like to see all male staff.”

The first five, we could dismiss immediately, being either too young or too old to be the man in question, but the sixth man who came in, looked exactly like Randolph Lopscombe had done – though more healthy, of course.

He was almost unrecognisable at first behind his massive moustache and the bushy side whiskers that would better suit a much older man than him. But his forehead, brows and eyes were unmistakably the same than his brothers, making it not hard to imagine, that without the hair in his face, he would be the spitting image of his older brother. Being handsome and attentive in an offhand manner, he still had a recalcitrant attitude, that might have been offensive had it not been for his disarming smile.

Joseph Lopscombe – or rather Peter Smithers as he called himself now, bowed deeply, looking expectantly from one to the other. 

“You wanted to see me?” he, at last, answered without the slightest appearance of suspicion on his features.

“Yes, I did,” Sherlock answered. “Or rather this man did.” he pointed at Doctor Watson. 

“And how may I help you?” he asked, still certain that he had not been found out. From the corner of my eyes, I could see the Holmes brothers stepping towards the two doors that led into the room, blocking them with their bodies, trapping the man inside the chamber.

Unable to speak, the doctor gestured for his friend to carry on talking, the anger welling up, his eyes staring in contempt at the man that had killed his son.

“By owning up to what you have done one and half years ago.”

Lopscombe paled visibly.

“I fail to understand, Sir.”

“That I doubt. I think you rather wonder if it was the attempted murder I am referring to or the committed manslaughter.”

Now the man tensed and I was sure he would lunge at my husband at any moment.

“Sir, I still think you might be mistaken.” he voiced carefully, glancing about for an escape route. Sherlock positioned himself even more prominently in front of the door and with his black eye and the other bruises, he looked quite the rogue. “And I am sure I am not, Mr Joseph Lopscombe esquire.”

“I have never killed a man!” All of us were acutely aware, that he had not denounced his identity.

“No, you have killed a small baby. What kind of man does that make you?” I spat, livid. “A man at least would have stood a chance, but while you were pissing your pants, you drove so fast, that in your haste you knocked down a mother and her six months old son.”

He wheeled around to face me, astonished only for a moment at realising I was not male, then stammering: “I…-I thought they would get up again, soon.”

“You thought so?” Doctor Watson, at last, yelled from the top of his lungs, making everybody wince. “You did not even stop to see to them you pathetic coward of a man – if I can even call you a man, you bastard!”

He stepped forward, getting threateningly close to the man who had killed his child and paralysed his wife and with all the might his anger afforded, he kneed Lopscombe in the groin. Incapacitated the man sank to the floor, where he lay in a sorry heap.

The yelling had brought the other servants and several deeply annoyed club members to the scene, one yelling with equal audibility: “Holmes, what in Gods name is going on here? If you and your guests don't stop this blubbering, I am going to call the police for breach of domestic peace!”

“Calling the police is an excellent idea, Prescott – just that I beg you, to let my friends be and instead have this fellow arrested.” Mycroft Holmes pointed at the still whimpering man.

“Smithers?”

“Yes, Smithers.”

“Whatever for?”

“Manslaughter – and thinking of it add criminal assault and treason as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the end of this case then and the next will soon follow. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think this far. 
> 
> \- I know, what is lacking in the solution to this story is the reason why Joseph Lopscombe was hiding at the Diogenes Club. Reason for not explaining it in the story itself, is simply that it is of no further interest for Watson or the others. Their interest lay in finding the one responsible for Henry and Mary's accident and to supply a reason for the accident and that they have done  
> But for those who would like to know, the reason is quite simple: Lopscombe thought, quite accurately, that hiding in plain sight was a much more clever move than hiding somewhere in the country for example. It's basically the same theory with the needle in a haystack. - The best way to hide a needle is amongst other needles, not in a pile of hay. At any rate, his choice of hiding place also afforded him to keep an eye on the ongoings around him. There might not be much gossip among the members of the Diogenes Club, but in the back of the house, that would in all likeliness be different.   
> I know it is quite ironic, that after everything he now is acting like one of those people he has previously shown little regard for – the plebs. Then again, I doubt any of the group would have hesitated to recruit 'normal folk' if it would have suited their purpose. - Hence their incarceration in Amersham and not a regular prison.
> 
> I also know Holmes' marriage is very fluffy and their relationship surprisingly uncomplicated, but I figured that while solving criminal cases, there already was enough drama to deal with to just have them happily married. Besides, they are both so rational that I couldn't picture them bickering all the time, making their lives miserable instead of simply making the best of it. I just can't see Holmes nor Harriet putting up with the crap of a complicated relationship.
> 
> Love  
> Nic


	11. Murder at the Matinée - Part 1

Murder at the matinée – Part 1

Harriet:

It was little more than a week after we had successfully got Joseph Lopscombe into prison, where he now awaited his trial, that I arrived home from a long and weary day at St. Anne's. I had felt off for a couple of days now and hoped I was not coming down with something. Handing Tom my hat, coat and umbrella, I climbed up the stairs to the sitting room, where I found to my dismay, that my husband was bend over a chemical experiment that filled the air with a rather pungent smell of sickly sweetness. 

“What on earth are you doing?” I sighed, as I entered the room, the air thick with smoke.

“I am trying out something. But I have to admit I had little success so far.” my husband answered, looking rueful.

“What is this stench?” I wrinkled my nose and dashed over to the window to open it, gagging.

“An extraction of belladonna, peppermint, red currant and flavoured gum Arabic.”

“I must inform you now, that I do not own a life insurance and will never give my consent to have one taken out on me.” I gasped, still trying to control my rising nausea.

He had joined me at the window and now was laughing heartily, while I felt rather wretched, only just able to refrain from retching.

“So, what exactly was this experiment supposed to prove?” I dug deeper, giving him a peck on his lips at last.

“That George Williamson of Idaho was killed by his partner in business, by managing to infuse gum Arabic with an extract of belladonna.”

“I suppose he liked to chew gum?”

“He did. He also liked to make money with it.”

“Chewing gum?”

“No, making it. He was one of the partners of Williamson and Blythe the upstart sweet manufacturers in the American mid-west.”

“Ah, that now explains everything. Apart from why you are working on the case. Last time I checked we lived in the English capital, called London...” I said, with a sarcastic undertone. I had been so looking forward to a comfortable evening at home, that the lingering smell damped my mood considerably. 

“I work on it, because I received this telegram this morning, shortly after you left. And since I had nothing better to do, I thought I might as well look into it.”

He reached inside his waistcoat pocket and handed me a crumpled piece of paper.

I read through it, with increasing irritation. “And just who is this Inspector Millar to ask for your help? Isn't it a bit silly, considering the distance?”

“Are you angry at me?”

“No, but I am greatly annoyed by the aroma you have created. I have had putrid smells most of the day, I am not in the mood to sit around in them all evening as well. I honestly feel quite sick from it already, I don't think I can bear to stay here all evening long.”

“We could curl up in bed and read a bit,” he suggested.

“Yes, we could, if you had not left the bedroom door open.” I pointed at the only leaning door.

“Oh, no!” slapping his palm against his forehead, he then pulled me close, holding me, my head against his shoulder, whispering into my ear: “Can you forgive me?”

“Of course. I love you, I think I can forgive you almost anything. But could we stay at my house for the night?” I answered him, a small smile slipping across my features as he looked at me in the most sheepish manner.

“That, my dear is a brilliant idea. Then we can leave the windows open a fraction and by tomorrow the smell should have evaporated.” 

“Yes, with any luck...” I replied, reluctant to believe the stench would clear away so quickly.

xxx

Sherlock:  
“Is your maid still not back?” I asked as we climbed out of the cab, eyeing the dark house, looming up from behind the shrubs and trees.

“No. A family matter.” Harriet explained matter of factly, walking ahead of me and unlocking the door.

We stepped into the dark and cold hallway and I could feel my wife tense slightly. Turning up the gas, it immediately became a more cheerful place – and one devoid of dolls swinging from the ceiling. 

“Do you want me to take care of the fires?” I asked while helping her out of her coat.

“Yes, then I can make us some dinner,” she answered. 

I looked confused. Surely she would not have left anything in the house for the many weeks she had stayed away, and think it was still edible? But as it turned out, I had underestimated my wife and her skill in stock keeping. - And in cooking.

“Do you want me to stoke all of them?” , I wanted to know, when I had collected as many coal-scuttles as I could carry at once, to re-fill them. 

“No, the one in the bedroom, the bathroom and the living room should do – and I took care of the range.” she had wrapped an apron around her skirt, rolling up the sleeves of her shirtwaist and I saw, that the range was already fired. Following me downstairs and into the cellar, Harriet pointed out the coal cellar.

Through the door of the larder, I saw an array of jars, smoked and salted meats and fish as well as some bottles of wine and crates of apples, pears, nuts, onions and potatoes. 

“What did you think?” she enquired when I remarked on it. “This room is perfect for keeping things fresh – the temperature stays almost the same in winter as in summer. And did you not search the whole house anyway?” 

“Yes, twice, but the cellar door was obviously untouched, so I saw no reason to waste my energy on it. But anyway, now I am getting quite hungry.”

“Yes, me too, but it will take a while till I am done. - I hope you like fried potatoes.”

“Yes, very much so.”

We were just about to ascend the steep steps to the ground floor again when the doorbell chimed.

“Who on earth...” my wife asked, sounding none too pleased. “I hope it is not my neighbour. She is a bit of a hypochondriac and currently expecting her first child. Not a good combination at all.”

“Do you want me to answer the door? I could always claim you are indisposed, have been murdered or something.”

“I would appreciate that,” Harriet answered laughing, letting me pass.

It was not her neighbour, however, but her friend Anne Fraser, together with her husband, who stood on our doorstep.

“I am so sorry, we are calling this late and unannounced, but we saw the lights were on and I have an invitation for you and your wife, Mr Holmes.” the lady smiled, looking apologetic.

“Please, come in, I'll go and get Harriet. She is busy in the kitchen and I doubt it is advisable for you to venture there, seeing you are on your way to an evening party.” 

“Yes, we are.” she looked puzzled. “And we do indeed have little time, I am afraid. But do you think you could arrange to join us next Friday for a matinée at the Lyceum? I am aware it is on rather short notice, but we have a box and we thought you might be interested and...”

Behind me, Harriet had appeared, arms laden with groceries.

“Anne? What is the matter? Is something wrong with Louise?” and putting down the bowl with the vegetables she had brought up on the side table, she stepped forward, hugging her friend, bearing a worried expression. 

“Oh, no nothing is wrong at all and my little darling is as well as she could be. We only just passed and thought we might as well ask if you would like to join us for Bach's Brandenburg Concertos on Friday next. We have a box for the matinée and after that, we could go and have dinner somewhere. I did threaten to invite you, after all.” Anne Fraser teased, making Harriet smile lopsidedly. 

“Dear?” my wife looked at me in a way that made it clear she would like to go, and since I was rather partial to Bach as well, and wanted her to have a nice evening with her friends, it was agreed on.

“So, where were we?” Harriet asked, as the door had closed behind them, looking confused and tired after the sudden interlude and it occurred to me, that she must have had a very trying day indeed. “Ah, yes, I wanted to prepare dinner. Now it is already past half past eight! Can you still wait, or can I offer you an apple until I have managed to get the potatoes done?”

“I can wait, my dear. I can also give you a hand with the cooking, you do look exhausted. You know what? I first help you in the kitchen and then light the fire in the bedroom and after we have eaten, I tuck you in and read something to you. How about it?”

“That sounds absolutely wonderful, Sherlock, but I would like to take a bath before going to bed. I was not exaggerating when I said I had a lot of pungent smells invade my nostrils today. From open sores to a woman who… - Oh, never mind. By the way, you still smell of your experiment as well.” she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“If I remember it correctly your bathtub is big enough for two.” I smiled and she grinned back.

“I think so. - So if you could heat the boiler now, we will have the luxury of having a steaming hot bath by the time we have finished our meal.” she advised me, beginning to peel the potatoes and onions.

“Anything to please my wife.” I smiled, kissing her neck before picking up the coal scuttles to march upstairs.

xxx

The pungent smell from my experiment was more persistent than I had thought and I had ended up staying in Chiswick for the rest of the week, while Watson had moved out of our shared rooms more speedily than he had originally planned to. For two days he and I, having nothing better to do, with my wife back at work and no case for me to solve, had moved around some furniture already, making sure, Mary Watson would be able to move about the rooms without too much hassle. But it was Harriet, who made it look like a home again, with a couple of flowers, arranging the cushions and doilies and putting everything the lady of the house might want and require within her reach and it was also due to her, that within the week, a woman had been found who would make a suitable nurse to the paralysed lady. 

The day after our retreat to Chiswick, Tom had joined us there sometime during the afternoon and was quickly getting adept at lighting fires, cleaning grates, setting the table and so forth. On his second morning, Harriet had already departed for Lisson Grove, I found him desperately trying to open the living room window to let in some fresh air, but to no avail. I had almost forgotten about the nails, I had hammered into the windowsills, to keep intruders from opening the latches from the outside and had to admit, that at the time, I had been a little bit overzealous. 

We eventually managed to remove them with the help of some pliers and a visible dent in the wooden windowsill, where I had pressed down the tool for some leverage. It took us the whole morning to get all the nails out, but at long last, it was done and even the kitchen window could be opened again. 

“You know, you could have tied a bit of wire or string around the latch to keep it from slipping out when forced,” Tom told me, matter of factly, when we had pulled out the very last nail, and I realised that he was quite right. 

“Do me a favour, boy, don't tell my wife,” I replied, ruffling his hair, remembering that at the time she had thought my measures a bit extreme. 

“No, not me, sir.” he grinned.

“What is he not supposed to tell me?” 

Both of us wheeled around to find Harriet standing in the doorway, looking bemused and it was quite evident, that she had been watching us for some time.

“Nothing!” Tom piped up in a way that made her smile broadly – and round up on me instead.

“You are home early.” I tried to change the subject. But like many a married man before me, came to the realisation, that a wife can be the most persistent creature in the world if she chose to. - And Harriet had chosen to.

Owing up to my mistake, I felt like I always had, when I had been caught red-handed by my father, when still a boy myself. She tried to look stern, but failed miserably. Shaking her head, she looked up at me, with a smirk on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes and I knew there was no storm brewing.

“Oh, and Sherlock, I am home this early, because we have been invited to the theatre, remember?” 

I had not, of course. 

xxx

I was done changing rather quickly, while Harriet, with her mane of thick long hair, needed considerably more time to get ready to follow the Frasers' invitation and I was quite looking forward to seeing her in something other than her plain everyday attire. I had, of course, glanced into her wardrobe and had seen several evening and ball gowns, and I was certain, she would look stunning in any of them. 

Returning downstairs, I checked on Tom, who had been charged with solving some mathematical calculations as part of his education, we had agreed on giving him. He knelt on a chair at our kitchen table, chewing on his pencil, completely engrossed in his task. I left him to his work and instead, in expectation of an afternoon of lovely music, sat down at Harriet's piano and began playing a tune from her sheet music. Till now, we had never got around playing music together, I realised to my dismay, determined to change that sometime soon.

“I did not know you can play the piano as well,” she spoke softly, stepping into the living room and casting a quick glance at the clock hanging on the wall, I realised, I had been quite lost in my task as well. I turned around and my jaw dropped in awe. 

My wife always looked lovely, but now she was downright stunning. Her silk dress had a deep shade of violet-blue, with an ornamental embroidery around the hem of her skirt and at the end of her elbow - length sleeves. This embroidery was a few shades darker than the fabric and only when she moved, one could see the thin thread of silver, that was entwined with the blue ones. The dress showed some cleavage, but only just enough to make a man make a double take without actually staring. She did not wear a necklace, but a sparkling pair of gold and crystal earrings and her hair was pinned up with the aid of an unassuming crystal embedded comb, in a way, that two curls fell over her left shoulder. Most women would need a pair of curling tongs to achieve this, but my wife was fortunate enough to have hair curling naturally in soft loose corkscrew ringlets – given she allowed it to hang loose, which was but rarely.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, looking down on herself, her cream coloured gloves still in her hands.

“Everything all right?” I managed to articulate, answering quite bluntly: “At the moment I am the happiest of man. - Because tonight I can take this beauty home with me and make love to her.”

“So I take it I look halfway decent?” she mused, sitting down on the piano stool next to me, playing the second to the tune I had practised.

“No, not halfway decent at all!” I exclaimed, turning to face her. “Harriet, you look breathtaking. You are always pretty, no matter what, but at this moment, I do wonder, how I deserve a wife this beautiful and intelligent.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and to my astonishment her eyes flowed over, tears streaking her lovely face. 

“What is the matter, dear?”

“That was just very nice of you to say, I am not very used to receiving compliments,” she admitted, looking embarrassed, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

I was taken aback. How could one not compliment this gorgeous woman? And then I remembered her remark on the train home from Winchester. Perhaps she was just a little too daunting for most people and men especially. Something I thought odd, thinking that she was such a kind-hearted creature. - Well, society was rarely interested in kindness, but more in small talk and that was indeed a skill, my wife had yet to learn. Pulling her into an embrace, I held her close to me, whispering into her ear: “I love you!”


	12. Murder at the Matinée - Part 2

Murder at the matinée – Part 2

 

Sherlock:

Dropping Tom off at Baker Street first, we still reached the Lyceum half an hour before the performance would begin and in the foyer, Colonel and Mrs Fraser already awaited us, so we could walk upstairs together. At this point it might be wise to mention, that either of them was still unaware of my full name and so I enjoyed the anonymity that a rather common surname affords a man, just being the husband of a valued family friend lately married.

The box we occupied was to the right of the stage, where the orchestra was already tuning their instruments. I looked around interestedly. The theatre was astonishingly packed, considering it was a Friday afternoon, and then again, most people I did see, were surely not in need of following an occupation. As I glanced around, refraining to use one of the opera glasses that were provided in every box, I chanced to see a middle-aged man with a twirled moustache and a goatee and a woman several years his junior, in a prominent bright green dress, argue, either face contorted in anger. Only when another couple stepped into their box, which was almost opposite ours, did they stop, turning away from one another in a way that clearly showed, that they had not resolved their differences. The man who had just entered seemed to notice, too, that something was not right and was granted with an insincere smile from the crossed lady and a forced, but more honest one from her spouse. When nothing further happened, I turned my head towards the other end of the theatre, opposite the stage and for a moment, I thought I saw another indignant face. A middle-aged man of solid stature, his hands dug deep into the pockets of his frock coat, had glanced at the very same pair, I had just had my eyes fixed upon, but as soon as one of that party had looked up, he had turned around hastily. 

“Harriet, your dress is absolutely beautiful,” Mrs Fraser told her friend and I was a little annoyed that it had only been my wife's dress she had been graced with that compliment. 

“Yours as well, Anne, this particular shade of mahogany suits you extremely well. You look stunning in it.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” the woman exclaimed and for a moment I thought she might pay back the compliment. “I only just got it last week. I was not sure about it since it seems a bit daring, don't you think?”

Ah, that was, what this was all about, the insecurity at wearing the latest folly. Inwardly I rolled my eyes.

“Mine is neither as fancy as yours nor as fashionable,” Harriet answered in an off-hand, though evasive manner. “But I feel most comfortable in it. I am afraid I have only altered the sleeves on mine this summer, so I could wear it for another season - and it was lucky I had some fabric left over.”

I never was very interested in women's clothing, but I could not resist turning my head to have another look at my wife's dress and compare it to that of her friends.

Mrs Fraser indeed wore an extremely fashionable gown, in said warm mahogany colour, and accompanied by an 'interesting' looking headpiece. Her dress was more revealing than Hattie's and it was also much more adorned, with frills and an overload of beadwork, and still, while one woman was perhaps more up to date, and her dress suited her well, the other one looked more sophisticated and breathtaking. Turning towards the audience again, I saw the occasional man stare at my wife and cast an envious look towards me, as they became aware of her and her beauty and the lucky fellow by her side. I was not quite sure, whether it annoyed or thrilled me, but I certainly was proud to be calling her my wife. Very much so, I have to admit.

The lights went out and the music began playing. Leaning back in the comfortable chair, I felt Harriet's hand upon my own, that was resting in my lap. Smiling I got hold of it gently with my other, caressing the back of it absent-mindedly to the rhythm of the music.

The concert was excellent and closing my eyes, and thus shutting out all other senses, I gave myself up to its magic – and to Hattie's soft touch. It was nice to share something this beautiful with the woman I loved with all my heart. 

xxx

It was the end of the first half of the performance and the bell sounded for the break while the lights got turned up and blinded each of us for a moment when a scream pierced the exalted silence and the call for a doctor rang shrilly through the auditorium. Irritated I looked around. I, as well as many others, had still been absorbed in the last sounds of the wonderful music and was not willing to return to reality just yet. Harriet though stiffened next to me and her eyes searched for the source of the call. She eventually fixed her eyes on a certain box. 

It was the very one, I had seen the couple quarrel in earlier. Now the lady in green looked horrified and her husband appeared almost lifeless, while the other couple seemed shocked and at a loss as to what to do. When after an instant, no-one moved, but everyone stared at the desperate people, and no other doctor arrived at the scene, my wife got up hurriedly and I knew where she was off to. - So much for a quiet afternoon at the theatre!

I saw her enter the box, which caused a bit of a stir within, but standing her ground, she seemed to assure the others, that she indeed was a doctor and that she would take care of the patient. Many a curious face was turned towards the ongoings, but eventually, most people had filed out of the stuffy room and had gone to refresh.

I watched Harriet search for the man's pulse – first at his wrists, then at his neck, but as soon as she had touched the man's jugular, obviously because she had been unable to detect a heartbeat at the first location, her hand darted back and she straightened her back abruptly. Something was not right. Bending down again slowly, I was surprised to see, that with one hand, she seemed to hold the man's head, while with the other she reached for something that I could not see, but that seemed to be wrung about the unconscious man's neck. 

Still staring at my wife I saw her calm down the rest of the group before turning around slowly and looking in my direction. Her face was pale and I could see her form the words: “I need your help, Sherlock!”

Excusing ourselves from the Fraser's, who had patiently waited for us, I made my way over to the box in question. 

“Ah, there you are!” my wife smiled, though I could see it was forced. “Brilliant, I think while we try and help your father, you, Mr Thompson, might take care of the ladies and get them a cup of tea. It must have been quite a shock when he collapsed.” she gestured at the lifeless form slumped down in his chair.

“I cannot leave my husband!” the woman in green refused to leave, close to hysterics, wringing her hands and her eyes bulging from their sockets in a frenzied panic, her eyes darting from one person to the other. 

“You must not forget your own well being, madam,” Harriet argued, and somehow managed to steer her out of the box, hastily closing the door behind her, leaning against it, shaking.

“What is it, dear?” I asked, looking from her to the passed out man and wondered, why Harriet had not simply asked the other man, to help her lay the patient on the floor, which certainly would be more comfortable for the patient.

“He is dead, Sherlock,” she answered me quietly, leaving the door and walking towards the body. “To be precise, he has been murdered.”

I stared at her aghast.

“Surely you cannot be serious!” I finally cried out, at the same time taking a closer look.

“But I am. See - “ Shielding the man from view, she indicated at a small red line around the man's neck and then, to my utter shock, she grasped his hair and bending the head backwards, I caught sight of the man's trachea and oesophagus.

“He is all but decapitated. Only the sturdy ligaments of his spine keep the head in place, but all the soft tissue has been severed.”

“But how?” Even I was too stunned to take much in.

“By this.”

Harriet had reached behind the man and a thin wire that glittered and gleamed in the glaring light that shone from the chandelier, competing with its crystals and the gilding, appeared.

“What it is exactly, I do not know, nor what it is used for – apart from trying to cut off a dead man's head, obviously,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

I glanced about the small compartment. From the eight chairs that the box had, he had chosen one of the two closest to the door. His wife, the lady in green, had sat in the front row of chairs, as far away from her spouse as she possibly could, while the other two had occupied the two chairs in front of the deceased.

“Why would someone kill a man in such a public place as a theatre?” Harriet had looked around also.

“Perhaps it was the only place the killer could get at him?” I suggested. “It would not be the first time it had been done.”

“But the risk of getting caught!” 

“When the light is out, you would hardly see him in the shadows.” I pointed out. “No one would see.” 

“But he could have been heard.” she insisted.

“Not necessarily, all the other people and the music can easily cover a muffled outcry.”

“But his son and daughter in law sat right in front of him.” 

Sighing at the current pointlessness of our conversation, she asked me to help her lay down the body on the floor, and out of sight. But doing so, was fairly tricky, as his head was dangling most precariously once it was brought into horizontal position and I almost feared it would fall off after all. But eventually, it was done.

“We need to call the police,” I remarked. “What about the rest of the family? Any suggestions?”

“Well, we need to tell them, but I don't think right now is a good idea, at least not the women. The wife is in hysterics as it is already, I don't want to imagine the wail that will follow the news of her husband's demise, let her calm down first. If word gets out, panic might ensue and that would be the last thing we would want.”

She had a point there. Murder and crowds did not mix well.

First we had considered that Harriet should stay with the body, while I should go and call the police, but in the end, though, it was Harriet who went to call for the police and I stayed behind, taking the opportunity of searching the box for evidence of a murder most shocking and most public.

xxx

 

Harriet:  
When I stepped outside, the young man, who belonged to the small group, wanted to make his way in and it was almost by force, that I could keep him from rushing into the box.

“Sir, please, calm yourself.” I entreated him, placing my hand on his lapel and pushing him back slightly. His upbringing kept him from shoving aside a lady, but I knew in his desperation he was close to losing his reserve.

“What is going on? Why are you keeping me from my father? My stepmother is beside herself with worry.” he pointed at the lady in question, who sat on one of the upholstered benches, that lined the opposite walls, while passers-by glanced at her curiously. But at least she had already grown much calmer already.

“If you could come with me, I will tell you, but we cannot let you in just now,” I whispered, but the urgency with which I spoke caught the man's attention and he followed me demurely to the outside. 

“Now, tell me, doctor, what is this all about? How is my father? Will he be all right?”

I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the one task I hated most in my line of work – telling people that a loved one had died. But it had to be if I did not want to cause a stir after all. 

“Mr Thompson, I am very sorry, but… - your father has died. He was dead already when I first saw him, there was really nothing I could do, but now we will have to call for the police.” 

He stared at me, presumably looking for a sign that I was making a very bad joke. It was then, that I caught sight of a constable and waving my hand, he came towards us.

“Yes madam, is there a problem?”

“We have a body inside one of the boxes,” I answered, knowing that the biggest shock for the young man was yet to come. “The man in question has been murdered.”

Both men stared at me and I was acutely aware, that once again, my sex interfered with my profession and my credibility. 

It was the young constable who spoke first, a sceptical look on his plain face: “And you would know such a thing, because?”

“Because I am a doctor,” I replied coolly, turning towards young Mr Thompson. 

The young gentleman stared into space, all colour drained off his face, but he stood tall and erect as if he had swallowed a broomstick. There was something in his behaviour, that told me, he was less surprised than he should have been at my revelation of his father having been killed. 

“And you are certain?” the policeman enquired, seemingly unsure of how to proceed, being young and green.

“I am certain.”

“Can the crowd be kept away from the body?” 

“Yes, my husband is keeping vigil in the box and will keep everyone out who tries to enter,” I replied.

“And he can be trusted? You know, if what you say is true, there might be evidence there, that he might inadvertently destroy and the inspector will not like that.”

He had obviously had made such a mistake himself sometime during his short career. I almost had to bite back a laugh, assuring him: “Yes, my husband can be trusted, in a matter such as this, he has actually worked for the police once or twice and is familiar with the procedure.”

That admittedly was an understatement.

“Oh, all right, I'll go for an inspector then.” the young official agreed, turning around on the heels of his police-issue boots and hurrying down the street.

“Are you all right, sir?” I asked the son of the deceased. He nodded, lost in his thoughts. 

I waited for several minutes and just when I turned to walk back into the theatre, I heard him speak, very quietly and very calmly: “I have told him, he should take the threats seriously. I told him so. But he would not seek help. He was so sure he could deal with it on his own.”

“So you saw this coming?” I asked, equally quiet, watching the people return to their seats as the half-hour break ended.

“Yes, but I had never thought it would happen in such a public place. How, doctor, how was it done? Was he poisoned?”

“No...” I trailed off, while it occurred to me, that the man might have been drugged before he was killed.


	13. Murder at the Matinée - Part 3

Murder at the matinée – Part 3

Sherlock:

As soon as the door had closed behind my wife, I began looking around me, cursing the fact, that I had not brought my magnifying glass with me. But as I had not expected that I might have to solve a crime while out with Harriet and her friends, my bare eyes would have to do. And so I began by first examining the door from the inside, not wanting to attract the attention of the unfortunate man's relatives waiting on the other side. 

The ornate brass doorknob did not reveal much, but next to it, part of a bloody fingerprint that disappeared around the edge was visible and there was indeed another imprint, fainter but still clearly outlined, of two fingers and a thumb, where I presumed the person to have killed Mr Thompson had pressed his palm against the door leaf to be able to open it without any noise. Imitating the action, I could establish, that the murderer had been only slightly shorter than myself, but with bigger and broader hands. 

Turning around again, I carefully walked over to the chair the man had sat in, keeping my eyes on the ground in the hopes that something might catch my attention. - And it did.

The carpet that covered the floor, was of a silky plushy kind that when shuffling around with one's feet, left an imprint – at least until the next person walked over the same spot. In this case, right behind the late Mr Thompson's chair, the surface of this otherwise fairly smooth carpet was slightly ruffled and by bending down, to inspect the area closer, I could make out the fairly distinguished outline of a rather large footprint, but could not make out any details as to the shoe or its actual size. 

The existence of this imprint, however, suggested a certain struggle, at least on the murderers part. So how was it, that none of the other occupants had realised what was going on? After all, the man's son and daughter in law had sat right in front of him.

After that it was but a short time to establish, that the rest of the box was devoid of any further evidence – at least any evidence connected to the crime at hand and so only the dead man himself was left to be examined.

He had been a tall man, broad-shouldered and bulky, but in the muscular sense, not the portly, even though with age – he must have been in his mid- to late fifties – he had obviously expanded his girth slightly. His face, despite having relaxed in death by the lack of tonicity, appeared stern and foreboding, with his thin-lipped mouth underneath the meticulously waxed moustache, the bushy eyebrows, wide forehead and the close-set eyes. In life one would certainly have done well to stay on the good side of this fellow, he did not look like a man to cross and get away with it. 

The quarrel with his wife came to mind. And I wondered once again, what it had been about that they had cast propriety aside and argued most privately in public for everyone to see. But as the question would not be answered by staring at the dead man, I continued with the more productive task of making my observations about him as he lay there before me.

In his youth, he had obviously engaged in manual labour, as his hands and built clearly showed and he had also been abroad for some time, as was shown by an impressive and skilful Maori-tattoo circling his left lower arm so that it was just about covered by his shirt cuff. The corresponding New Zealand – Penny he wore on his watch chain bore testimony that it was the other side of the world, that he had been influenced by the most and judging by the remnants of a once deep tan, that still lingered on those body parts usually exposed to the sun, he must have stayed there for many years, perhaps had even been born there and had mainly been working out of doors at that. A farmer he was most certainly not, but he might have been a builder or looking more closely at his hands, a sculptor. Nonetheless, with the evidence I had, that was not to be established, but in the light of what I had found so far, it was the most likely conclusion.

Apart from that, he was right-handed, liked a good drink, chewed tobacco, but did not smoke it, and enjoyed an occasional swig of laudanum. A likely remnant habit of an old head injury he seemed to have sustained some time ago, but that was so badly healed, even though now covered by bushy grizzling hair, the bulging scar above his left ear was unmistakable. At any rate, even while listening to a concert, he had a tiny bottle of the drug in his pocket. I checked the small vial, made from brown glass, against the light and saw that it was about half empty. Now, this might be significant. 

If he had taken a swig sometime during the performance, he might have been in such a daze, that it might just as well be, that he did not realise it, when his killer approached him from behind. And if it was a habit of Thompson, then perhaps the murder might have even anticipated him taking some of the narcotic. Which in turn would indicate, that the murderer knew his target well. 

Had Thompson worked mainly manually when younger, eventually he must have swapped physical labour with a desk job of sorts. I would, of course, have been more able to tell what exactly he did, had he not worn his dress suit instead of his usual attire, as a dress suit is not quite suited, even for me, to make many deductions from it – apart from that he was well off and could afford one of the pricier tailors on Bond Street. But still, though his hands were clean, on his thumb, middle and ring finger I found traces of fine dusty carbon, suggesting he must have held a charcoal pen shortly before putting on his gloves and leaving his house for the theatre. 

Docketing the information for later, I at long last, came around to inspect the man's deadly injury and could not help wondering about the lack of blood. The cut was barely a thin line of red, now only slightly more visible than at first, as Harriet had pulled back the head to show me the extent of the cut and it had not settled exactly into place again, hampered by us laying the body down onto the floor. This could only mean one thing. – The man had not died from the wound but was killed in another way and this had only been an extra. It was quite a consolation, that he had not been alive when being decapitated. I examined the glittering wire more closely, but it was wrapped around the man's neck in such a way, that I could neither establish its length nor the exact material it had been made out of. I would have to be patient and wait for the official investigation taking care of it and request to have a look at it under a microscope.

But how did Thompson die? His eyes did not show any petechial bleeding, nor did the inside of his mouth, so he had not been strangled or suffocated. Once more I wished I had had the foresight of bringing my magnifying glass with me, disliking being this hampered and unprepared. 

It was frugal though to carry on, at any rate, as the bell chimed, telling the audience that the break was over and the concert was about to resume and as the lights dimmed already, right now I would not be able to find out any more. So instead of crawling around the floor any longer, I decided to have a good look around the auditorium once again. Some cast a curious glance in my direction, but none lingered. - Apart from the Fraser's, of course. Now being opposite they had taken their seat and did not seem to be surprised to see me where I was and I assumed, Harriet had spoken to them shortly during the break.

Nodding in acknowledgement, I voiced, much as my wife had done earlier, that we would explain the situation over dinner and would rejoin them as soon as possible – meaning as soon as the police had taken over. Anne Fraser nodded, shrugged her shoulders, a wry smile on her handsome face and then laughed, while the colonel leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes and already dozed off again as he had done during the first part. Then the lights went out completely and the music filled the room with its magic once more, making the whole situation seem almost surreal. 

xxx

Harriet:  
It had been most fortunate, that an inspector had been present in the nearest police station on the Strand, which was incidentally not far from the Lyceum and within less than fifteen minutes the young constable, another two of his rank, a sergeant and said inspector had arrived in the foyer. 

While waiting I had been fortunate enough to be able to tell Anne about the emergency and that we would at the latest join them again after the performance. 

“You got to do, what you got to do.” she had said, with a lopsided grin. 

Well, at least this now would contribute to a more interesting than the usual dinner conversation. I hinted as much and I could see her curiosity aroused. She certainly would not be disappointed.

The inspector, Lestrade by name, was a wiry man with the alert face of a ferret and eyes just as beady as the creatures. He gave the impression of a capable and intelligent policeman and I remembered faintly that it was him, whom Doctor Watson had informed about the ongoings in Winchester and who had sent down Hopkins in the process. 

Young Thompson, now in a state of stupor, as the reality of the situation had finally sunk in, leaned against the bar on the far side of the entrance hall, nursing a glass of brandy, affording me and the policemen a quiet word beforehand.

“You have called for me on a supposed case of murder?” the senior official asked, looking at me and the pale young man in the background, undisguised scepticism in his voice.

“Yes, I have,” I replied calmly, bracing myself for what was to come.

“And you base this extraordinary claim on…?” Inwardly rolling my eyes in exasperation, I took a deep breath before answering with forced indifference.

“I base this claim on the fact, that I have examined the dead man after a call for a doctor had been roused and I happen to be one...”

“Oh, all right, Doctor…?” He seemed surprised, but at least did not argue about my experience nor doubt my profession.

“Doctor Holmes, sir.”

“Ah.” 

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and an amused twinkle graced his eyes and I could all but see him snicker inwardly. 

“As said, I happen to be a doctor and when I arrived at the scene, I could not find a pulse on his wrist, so I went to check his carotid artery and apart from that there was none to be found either, instead I found, that his head had almost been cut off.”

“Good God! You cannot be serious!” the inspector cried out, looking taken aback now.

“But I am,” I replied with emphasis.

He swallowed hard as he realised I was indeed as serious as could possibly be.

“Then could you bring me to the dead man? Where is he anyway?”

“He is still in the box, where he was killed, just that we have put him on the floor, so he would be out of eyesight. If you will just follow me – oh, and perhaps someone should take care of that young man there, he is the dead man's son. You might need to question him and that might get difficult if he is too intoxicated.” I pointed at the miserable looking man who had just ordered another glass of liquor, appearing determined to get drunk fast and hard.

“Dear me… - Yes, of course, Meyers, you'll stay here.” he ordered the oldest of the constables, a man with a stoic expression and a slight limp. “And keep him from drinking any more.”

“How come they are still performing?” the inspector asked, as we neared the crime scene, about to turn into the corridor that would lead us there, already catching sight of the two women on the far end, still clutching one another in front of the box, appearing utterly distressed and lost, but not in hysterics any more – at least not for the time being. 

“We thought it best not to raise an alarm. We kept the family out, claiming the man needs rest and apart from the son, they have not yet been informed about their husbands and father in laws demise.”

“Oh dear!” he sighed, obviously looking forward to the task of breaking the news as little as I had been. “We?”

“My husband and I,” I explained, surprised the young constable had not mentioned it to his superior. “I left him in the box to keep watch over the deceased and every possible intruder out, if necessary.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed the detective's face, mumbling under his breath, but clearly audible: “And destroy any possible evidence while doing so, I dare say.” 

“That, Inspector Lestrade I doubt very much. I don't think anyone can possibly blame my spouse of destroying evidence, sir. Or being inattentive in the face of crime.”

The inspector cast a queer glance in my direction and then towards the two women who were still oblivious of our presence, as we had not yet rounded the corner to approach them.

“Do I know your husband, Doctor Holmes?” he asked after a moment's hesitation, quirking an eyebrow.

“You might.”

“Did you get married recently?”

“Two weeks ago.”

The man whistled surprised: “That is recent indeed. - And he is not coincidentally a lean and tall fellow in his mid-thirties, with dark hair, sharp eyes and a prominent nose?”

I laughed softly: “Coincidentally he is, Inspector Lestrade.”

“Then that is what Hopkins must have meant by extraordinary happenings in Winchester, I presume... - I take it you used to be called Doctor Stephens?” 

I affirmed his suspicions while he had confirmed my assessment of him being a clever man. 

“Lucky Bastard!” he exclaimed chuckling. “Well, then you actually have me convinced, that it was a wise move, to have your husband stay in that box, keeping everybody else out. - And presumably, gather as much information as he possibly could...”

At long last, bracing ourselves, we turned into the long and gently sloping corridor. The instance the two women saw me and the four policemen walking towards them they paled and hugged each other even more tightly, having their worst fears confirmed at that moment. It took but a few seconds till the younger one had dissolved into tears, while the widow was as stupefied as her stepson, unwilling or unable to take in the information she must know deep within herself, was the truth.

“He is dead, isn't he?” the younger lady finally asked between sobs and placing my hand on her shoulder I answered in the affirmative.

“But that cannot be so!” the lady in green whispered. “He cannot be dead. Not my Charles.”

While I tried my best to comfort the desolate dames, Inspector Lestrade had slipped into the box accompanied by the sergeant, while the constables now stood guard officially at a murder scene. Suddenly the brightly lit and dainty hallway had a distinctly sinister feel to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wondering how Holmes would recognise a Maori-tattoo? A tattoo!!!???  
> In one of the original ACD stories, to be more precise in 'The read headed league' Holmes states, that he has done some research about tattoos and even written and published an essay about the topic.   
> Back then, tattoos were not as uncommon as one would think, it was just, that people did not run around in t-shirts or tank tops and certainly not in shorts and miniskirts, so they did a better job at hiding them.   
> So here are a couple of prominent people from that time, who actually had tattoos without the public being any the wiser: Empress Sissy of Austria, Czar Nicholas of Russia, Thomas A. Edison, Theodore Roosevelt and a couple of more.


	14. Murder at the Matinée - Part 4

Murder at the matinée – Part 4

 

Harriet:

“So, what was this all about?” Anne asked curiously. “It looked to be quite serious.”

We had decided to walk the little way down to the restaurant they had chosen. A fashionable place that during the day catered for the men working at the various ministry's and in the evening to the many men and women visiting the theatres and music halls along the Strand. 

“It was serious,” I replied evasively, not wanting to start this kind of conversation in the middle of the street.

“And you are a doctor, too? I presume that is where you have met Hattie?” my friend glanced at my husband, who first looked perplexed and then shook his head, grinning in amusement.

“No, I am not a doctor at all, it was in my line of work I have met my wife, not hers.”

“And what line of work would that be? As I understood Harriet, she was called down to Winchester because of a mysterious disease among small children and that she engaged your help with that. So what profession could you possibly have other than being a doctor?” she enquired.

“I am a consulting detective.”

“Now, that is funny. You are a consulting detective and your name is Holmes? How befitting! But how could a consulting detective be of any use in such a case? You must be aware, that your wife is a very good doctor.”

“I am well aware of that and a consulting detective would be of use when what those children suffered from only had the appearance of an epidemic disease, while in truth it was something else. But that is for Harriet to tell. So, may I ask, Mrs Fraser, what my occupation has to do with my name to make it so fitting?” 

Anne gulped as the realisation dawned on her, that it had been a most heinous crime that had brought Sherlock and me together and she clung a little closer to her own man, who did not contribute much to the conversation at this point. After about half a minute though, Anne Fraser had caught herself enough, to answer his question:

“Oh, I told Harriet just the other day, that James and I really like to read detective stories and you must have heard about Sherlock Holmes, the detective, surely.”

“Yes, I have, it would be weird, had I not, since I built his reputation, so to speak.”

Now the colonel did join the conversation, looking slightly irritated to have his idol seemingly belittled: “So you claim, you are a better detective than Sherlock Holmes?”

“No, I claim to be exactly as good as him and though I generally try to exceed myself, I dare say, I will never be able to catch up on the man and be better than he really is.” Sherlock smiled at the slightly huffed man, as we entered the busy restaurant and were seated in a corner.

“And what did you do in that box then? I would have thought your wife was well able to take care of the sick man.” Colonel Fraser resumed the conversation when the waiter had taken our outerwear.

“I was searching for answers.”

“What answers could you possibly find? And why? And...” 

“How is the man who had been taken ill anyway?” Anne asked, interjecting the colonel in an attempt to sooth her husband's irritation, gently placing her hand on his. I knew hers was a good man, but he could have a bit of a temper and his mood could turn quite quickly.

Taking a deep breath I replied, that he had not been taken ill, but had been murdered. 

“Murdered!” the Fraser's exclaimed in unison.

“Yes.”

“In the middle of a theatre? How would that be possible?” Their astonishment was only natural, I could hardly believe it myself.

“We are not yet sure, but the inspector hopes to have that established over the next couple of hours when an autopsy will be conducted. And I am happy to say, that he would like me to help him in the investigation. There are a couple of very interesting aspects about this case, that make it stand out.” my own husband explained almost off hand, before ordering a bottle of Claret for us and trying to decide what to eat. 

The menu was varied and versatile and it was indeed hard to make a choice. I was hungry and yet was unsure, whether I would be able to eat anything. Taking my more tightly than usually laced corset into consideration, at long last I decided to pass on an entrée and instead settled on a stuffed chicken cutlet, while the men both ordered the braised beef and Anne a portion of stewed mussels in a cream sauce and some white bread. 

“Well, I dare say it must stand out.” Anne continued with our conversation. “I don't think a murder has been committed this publicly, ever.”

“Yes, this is a very public crime, indeed, But there have been murders more publicly committed and in fact there are several similar cases, where someone was killed during a theatre performance – only last year, for example, there was a man killed at the opera in Berlin - he had been stabbed. And there is another case, which happened in '79 right here in London and there are many more, but I do not want to bore you with too many details. It was more, what had been done to this man, that makes this case rather extraordinary.”

“I thought you could not tell how he had died.”

“And that is true, we could not, but...” Sherlock stopped himself, looking at my friend, unsure whether he could speak of something as gruesome as the murder we had come across this afternoon. 

“… the man's head had been almost severed from his shoulders.” I finished, refraining from describing the situation in detail, yet knowing Anne's curiosity well enough to know she would not stop easily once her interest was caught. Adding: “But fortunately only after he had died.”

“But how can you possibly know, that the head was cut off only after he died?” she gasped, eyes wide and cheeks pale.

“Because of the lack of blood. He had barely bled from that wound, meaning his heart must have stopped beating before his decapitation.”

Anne gulped, looking disgusted and disturbed and yet extremely interested, while her husband maintained his scepticism.

“But he sat there with his head attached! I saw him. After all, he basically sat opposite of us.” 

“I said almost, Colonel. It was still held in place by the ligaments of the spine.”

Considering our surroundings and the presence of a lady – well, a lady that had not studied medicine – I wondered, if perhaps another subject should be introduced, but was superseded by Mrs Fraser.

“And you have been looking for evidence trying to find the murderer?” she queried, looking at Sherlock Holmes.

“Naturally. After Harriet had asked me to come over and give her a hand, she went to get the police and I kept guard – and tried to make myself useful.” he smiled now, placing his hand on top of mine an squeezing it gently.

“And what when, with your rash actions, you have destroyed any traces that might lead to the solution of this crime?” James Fraser was still in one of his querulous moods and I presumed it had more to do with the lateness of the dinner than with anything else, knowing he was an overly punctual man and insisted on regularity in all aspects of his life.

“There was nothing rash in my actions, Sir. I am extremely attentive to detail, as I know it can be most essential. I keep on reminding the police of that, actually.”

The colonel wanted to reply to that, but just then, the starters arrived and the soldiers face lit up. Cocking my eyebrow at my husband he grinned in his endearing manner and before I knew it, had managed to put a bit of his duck liver pâté on a biscuit and had slipped it between my lips. 

“Sherlock, really!” I laughed and it was at that moment, that both Anne and James Fraser realised just who was sitting at their table. 

“You are Sherlock Holmes?!” Anne Fraser gasped, looking from me to my husband and back.

“Yes.” the man himself replied quietly, appearing embarrassed. 

“Harriet, why did you not say so?” she asked incredulously.

“Would you have believed me?”

After the starter, the colonel indeed was in a much better mood and wiping his mouth on his napkin leaned back to look at us, now smiling.

“I would have,” he said jovially, though did not specify why and I doubted his exclamation at any rate.

xxx

Sherlock:

We took a four-wheeler and dropped off the Fraser's at their house in Hampstead, where we stopped shortly, so Harriet could take a look at little Louise, who lay wide awake in her crib, appearing quite content and I was sure she must have grown half an inch since I had last seen her. The little babe gurgled happily, eager to be picked up. Again I was enthralled, just how natural my wife looked with a baby in her arms and I needed to swallow hard. After having a quick glass of Sherry for our nightcap, we climbed into the waiting carriage and sat off towards Chiswick at last, both feeling a bit tipsy. 

When we were finally on our own again, I dared to pull my wife close and in the privacy of the carriage kissed her deeply.

“Let us put aside crime till tomorrow and let us enjoy one another,” I whispered in anticipation.

“I never thought I would hear such a thing from Mr Sherlock Holmes,” Harriet smiled, ruffling my hair, having taken off my top hat and caressing my cheek gently.

“I was not lately married to you before, or else I am pretty certain I would have said something like this a lot sooner. And aside, I am lacking data to carry on with the case and until I have more information, I can just as well explore a bit in another field, that has caught my interest very much lately.” 

“Sounds very reasonable.” my wife replied dryly, kissing me back in a manner that made me hope we would reach home very, very soon. 

Despite the murder on our hands, I could not help noticing still, just how gorgeous she looked in that dress of hers, and the excitement of the incident had even increased her appeal, showing her brains matched her good looks. Now her eyes were sparkling in the yellowish light of the street lanterns we passed and there was a cheeky expression on her face, as she slid onto my lap, kissing me even more deeply.

“Right now, I am quite glad, your maid has not returned.” I grinned, when we entered the house. “So we can enjoy a bit of privacy.”

“Yes, me, too,” she admitted, wrapping her arms around me, nuzzling me.

“I am in the mood for something sweet, so, may I have my dessert now? After all, I have waited for it all afternoon and evening long.”

“And you still have an appetite after that ample dinner you had?” Harriet teased, while I planted kisses all along her jawline and down her neck.

“What do you think?” I raised an eyebrow, stopping in my task. 

“It appears so...”

xxx

We woke up fairly early the next morning nonetheless and after a leisurely breakfast took off to see Lestrade. 

“And you think he will be all right with me being there?” Harriet enquired, back in her plain everyday clothing, looking uncertain.

“He will have to, my dear,” I replied, helping her into the Hansom. “Apart from that, due to the fact that you were the first doctor to arrive at the scene and being the one to have pronounced the man's death, he will, of course, want to question you. And don't you want to have a look at the autopsy report and at this mysterious wire?”

“You are right of course,” she answered, snuggling into my arms as we drove towards Scotland Yard. “And yes, I would like that. I am quite curious, what the cause of death was.”

“Me, too. Do you think he might have been poisoned? He had Laudanum with him.”

She raised her eyebrows asking with a hint of amusement: “Are you not the one, who always says, that one should not jump to conclusions without any data?”

“I am, and yet, do you think it possible?”

“No. I am fairly sure, he was not poisoned. I just wonder if the Laudanum could perhaps have interfered with any signs of how he had died. - Like the lack of bleeding on the cut or any petechial bleeding. I have never paid much attention to these things before, but I find they interest me increasingly.” 

“Oh, do they? Yes, that indeed would be very interesting to know. I have to admit, I do not know the answer either.”

As it was, the body had been brought to the Yard's morgue the evening before – right after the concert had ended, but the autopsy was only about to start when we arrived and Lestrade was complying enough, to invite us along to see for ourselves.

“It was quite a scene after you have left.” the inspector spoke, as we made our way down to the small autopsy room. “The wife dissolved into hysterics once again, when she realised that her husband had been murdered and the police presence was not just a mere formality.”

“Did she say anything?” I wondered.

“No, she just glanced around, looked at her stepson, who nodded to assure her that it was true what I had said and then she fainted. The daughter in law was a bit more composed, but her husband had to basically drag her along as she was so confused, she did not want to leave.”

We turned a corner and took another flight of stairs, reaching yet another whitewashed corridor at whose end the inspector pushed open a door.


	15. Murder at the Matinée - Part 5

Murder at the matinée – Part 5

Sherlock:

To say that the medical examiner was surprised when three people stepped into the autopsy room, would have been nothing but the truth, but to say he was quite disconcerted that one of these people was a young and pretty woman, would have been understating things. Doctor James Bell, had just taken off the sheet, that had covered the body, to start with the outer examination, but as soon as his eyes fell on my wife, he quickly slipped it back over the dead man, who had not even been stripped yet.

I had met the doctor before and he knew me as well, nodding towards me in his usual friendly manner but when his eyes darted over to Lestrade, he seemed almost accusatory.

“Inspector, this is not a public autopsy. You yourself have ordered it to be none. Mr Holmes I guess is all right to attend, but I doubt very much, that this is the right past time for a lady.” and then he added, turning towards Harriet: “Madam, I am very sure that this is not anything you would wish to see. It is giving many a man some sleepless nights, after having been present, when a man is cut open and I dare think you are not planning to enrol in the subject of medical study.”

“No, doctor, I indeed do not plan to enrol at university to study medicine, as I have already done that and have graduated four years ago, making quite a name for myself already – though your subject happens to have the wrong gender for my line of expertise.” her smile was disarming and it was not wasted on the good man. “Though I was called in on occasion by colleagues of yours when it came to the mutilation and abuse of women. - Doctor Holmes is my name now, but I publish under the name of Stephens, still.”

“I have heard of Doctor R. H. Stephens and have read his work.” Doctor Bell answered, the sheet still in his hands, ready to pull it off of Thompson once more.

“Yes, that is me.”

“I thought you might appreciate her help, Bell.” Lestrade defended himself. “I would not have brought her, had she not been familiar with the case anyway. - She was the one who pronounced him dead. - By the way, you still need to sign the death certificate, madam.”

“I shall do so after the autopsy.”

It was obvious, that the examiner was still not quite comfortable with my wife being around, but he, at last, removed the sheet, folded it and put it on a stool beside the slab.

“Where is Hill anyway, should he not be here to assist you?” the inspector wondered, looking around the large whitewashed room for the assistant.

“He is lying in bed, being ill. I have sent him home this morning, seeing that he had a fever.”

“Good, then I can take his place.” Hattie smiled broadly, while Doctor Bell frowned once again.

Harriet, taking one of the aprons that hung behind the door and wrapping herself in it, stepped closer to the body, but respecting the lead of the other physician.

“We came to the conclusion, that the man cannot have died from the cut, but it was completely impossible to determine, what he had died of,” she informed him, indicating the wound and taking another look at the injury in the more appropriate lighting that the dissecting room afforded.

“Yes, I would say, you are right with that assumption. The lack of blood is a clear indicator, that the blood flow towards the head was already cut off.”

Watching my wife, I saw her biting her lower lip, before reaching for a magnifying glass and having a thorough look at the neck, but to my astonishment below the actual cut.

“Well, the blood flow was not cut off manually in any way,” she said after a moment and a small smile graced the lined face of Doctor Bell.

“No – so he must have died from some other cause.”

“May I?” Harriet carried on, taking the end of the wire that had us so bemused.

“Sure, but be careful, it is extremely sharp. I was told the sergeant who oversaw bringing him here has managed to cut himself with it quite badly.”

“Yes, I realised that yesterday, too. You would not know, what a wire like this is used for, would you?”

“No.”

Bell had lifted Thompson's head, so Harriet could pry loose the mysterious wire without greater difficulty.

Lestrade and I had sat down on a pair of surprisingly comfortable chairs and watched the two doctors working quite peacefully together. After taking a closer look themselves, the medics handed us the at first glance unassuming implement, but again, I was taken by the sparkling substance the wire was coated in. 

“May I use your microscope quickly?” I asked, getting up already and walking over to the doctor's desk in the other corner.

“Sure, knock yourself out, Mr Holmes.”

Adjusting the mirror of the microscope so the light from the gas jet above the desk would illuminate the object well enough to discern its details, I closed my left eye and glanced at the wire with the other. The wire was not particularly thin, but not very sturdy either and it looked as if it had been made of steel that in turn had been coated with a glistening substance while it had still been hot from pulling it. It was distributed all over the wire, apart from a couple of inches on either end. Looking more closely I saw that this glistening substance had extremely sharp edges, like tiny shards of glass. I took one of the unused specimen slides that lay ready to be used on top of a wooden cigar box and taking the coated wire, tried to cut it in half. It worked perfectly, giving as little resistance as if I were cutting a slice of buttered toast with a knife. 

“Whatever are you doing there, Holmes?” Lestrade wondered, having divided his attention between the doctors and me.

“I have been wondering, what this substance was and I am happy to say, that now I can tell you. - It is diamond dust.”

“Are you certain?” 

“Nothing else would cut glass this easily,” I argued, holding up the two halves of the slide. Stretching my back I turned around to see for myself, what Doctor's Bell and Holmes were up to now and saw, that with an expression of uneasiness on the formers face, they had by now almost stripped the man of his clothes – apart from his underpants. But when Harriet tried to remove them as well, the examiner stopped her.

“I do not think this would be appropriate,” he mumbled, his face turning a faint shade of red. Looking up, my wife looked first confused, before the corners of her mouth began twitching suspiciously.

“I was not aware, you had female medical examiners...” she mused, her eyebrows raised challengingly.

“We have not. Of course not!” 

“Then how do you deal with dead women?” Lestrade and I looked at one another and were both hard pressed not to laugh. 

“I am a professional, I can deal with both men and women,” Bell answered indignantly.

“Then you should realise, that the same applies to me. I may have specialised in the diseases of women and little children now, but my curriculum was exactly the same as yours when I studied and I have actually seen more men than women being cut open during that time – and all of them were as naked as on the day they were born. So, can we decide on stripping him down now and carry on?”

With a sigh, Bell opened the fastening of the man's underpants, which naturally were close to his crotch and while he lifted the man's buttocks slightly off the slab, my wife removed the offending item.

“Whoa, what...” Inspector Lestrade cried out, as soon as Thompson had been stripped naked at last and I could understand his reaction very well. 

Had I already caught a glimpse of the tattoo around the man's arm, which considering his overall proper attire, had already been a surprise, the second tattoo left all four of us astonished.

“That must have been very painful to have that done...” was the dry comment of my wife, “I bet it was quite a surprise for his wife, too, when she first got a glimpse of it.”

“Not if they always turned off the light beforehand.” I heard Lestrade mutter under his breath behind me as the same thought crossed my mind. Bell, on the other hand, looked utterly taken aback and I would have wagered there and then, that he already regretted it bitterly that he had agreed on Harriet helping him.

Ignoring the discomfort of her colleague, Harriet carried on viewing the body in silence, once in a while stopping to take a closer look with the magnifying glass and at long last, the actual autopsy was performed. The corpse was opened and the inner organs removed to be examined on the pewter covered side table with its high sides and the drainage hole to one side. 

“No inner bleeding, no other injuries and no signs of strangulation or asphyxia,” Bell muttered, lost in his own thoughts now. 

“And it does not appear, as if he has been poisoned either.” 

“No, no unusual rigour, no discolouration on the inside of the mouth, absolutely nothing.”

“He had a bottle of Laudanum on him and he might have taken some. It had been almost half empty.” I interjected.

“That might be so, but he certainly did not die from intoxication. There is no sign of any reflux no unusual smell of his stomach contents – as said, nothing. Though he might have been drowsy from the opiate – but it certainly did not kill him.”

“His wife said, he always took Laudanum with him, wherever he went,” Lestrade confirmed though. “Several years ago he had an accident and since then loud conversations and music gave him severe headaches. He used the stuff frequently and it seemed to be the only thing that helped him with his malady.”

So far I had been right then. And now knowing that it was a habit of his, many people who knew him, would have known about it, too.

“And he used some of it yesterday?” I dug deeper while watching Bell and Harriet carry on working, taking apart the body of what once had been Charles Thompson. Harriet had taken a few samples of the inner organs and was busy preparing the glass slides to have a closer look at the tissue.

“Yes, she said so. He was in a rather bad mood because he was in pain – she said they even quarrelled at the theatre.”

“They did. I saw them. And it did not look, as if they had resolved their differences when fate struck.”

“No.”

Harriet now bent over the microscope and I could see, something had, at last, caught her attention. Swiftly she walked over to the table again and beckoned Doctor Bell to have a look likewise.

“He was a builder, was he not?” I enquired further, curious as to what was going on.

“How on earth can you possibly know that?” the inspector stared at me in bewilderment. 

“Look at his hands. He has clearly worked with them when he was younger. More specifically I dare say he was a stonemason, but he sticks to designing things nowadays.”

“And there I thought you would not baffle me any more after all these years. Yes, he was a stonemason and builder.”

“Obviously from New Zealand.”

“Yes, he moved there as a young man. Returned about fifteen years ago, and has since made a name in indeed designing public buildings – or at least parts of them, as his speciality seems to be the decorative elements of them. So the architects hire him, to fill what they cannot or dare not design.”

“He must have done well considering...” I stopped mid-sentence as Harriet scalped Thompson, pulling his scalp over his face so that it now looked as if he was wearing a gruesome mask and stepping back herself, Bell started sawing open the skull. With the familiar sickening plop, the calvarium was taken off and without batting an eyelid my wife took out the brain, while the pathologist severed the spinal cord.

Watching attentively how Harriet prepared yet another slide and handed it to Bell, she looked up with something akin to triumph on her pretty and eager face and a moment later Doctor Bell proclaimed that they had found the cause of death.

“What was it?” Lestrade asked impatiently.

“He was injected air into his carotid artery – it went straight to his brain and caused an embolism.” the medical examiner answered. 

“There are traces of air in the heart tissue also, so it must have taken a couple of minutes until he had breathed his last,” Harriet carried on. “But not more than a few minutes.”

“But if he was injected air, how did we not find a puncture mark?” I asked, but then answered my own question. “Of course, it had been obliterated by the cut.”

“There is but one thing, I do not understand,” Lestrade remarked thoughtfully, “if he was already dead, why would someone attempt to cut off his head? I mean, why bother?”

“To make a statement?” Harriet suggested, shrugging her shoulders. 

I continued her line of thought: “I dare say the whole murder was supposed to be a statement. The place, the method, the tool…” 

“You said he was a stonemason?” she interjected me again.

“Yes.”

“Then I think I might know what this wire is normally used for.”

“You do?” I was aghast.

“In pottery, wires are used to cut the clay. – I think I have read somewhere, that stone, especially harder stone, sometimes is cut with what is called a wire saw. I have been wondering how it would work, but this surely would be the solution.” she had carefully picked up the wire. “I dare say that this is such a wire saw. - It would also explain, why the ends have no diamond dust embedded. After all, one needs to be able to hold that thing somehow without cutting through one's own fingers.”

“I can definitely see, why the two of you are attracted to one another...” Lestrade sighed in mock exasperation a friendly grin on his sharp face. “Must have been love at first sight.”

“Yes, that is pretty obvious. - And it was.” I smiled, my gaze fixed on my wife, who smiled back at me. “But there is still one question I would like to have answered.”

“And that would be?”

“How much force does it take to cut a man's neck with it?”

“We can hardly try that on another body.”

“No, but we could visit the nearest butcher shop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, yes, Dr James Bell was meant as a homage to Dr Joseph Bell, the man, that the character of Sherlock Holmes was based on.
> 
> Also, I have done some research on air embolisms. I am aware that they don't need to be deadly and that it would need quite an amount of air, to have such an impact as to kill a grown man within minutes. Then again, all I could find were cases, in which the air was injected in the usual medical spots for injection, which rarely include the carotid arteries. Using the carotid artery as an entry, would mean, that the air bubble would first affect the brain and not the heart, as Thompson had a predisposition due to his old head wound, I assumed hence, that an air embolism within the brain might likely cause cerebral apoplexy, which in turn can lead to a quick demise, depending on which part of the brain is affected. So let's just say, the murderer had been lucky that it worked.
> 
> And no, the tattoo is NOT on his 'you know what', but on both his upper thighs (inside and out) and also covering the butt. - Still, at least for Victorian times, quite a risky place.


	16. Murder at the Matinée - Part 6

Murder at the matinée – Part 6

Sherlock:  
The nearest butcher, of course, meant the nearest one who would let us misuse his dead pigs and so, taking a cab to Smithfield Market, Harriet, Lestrade and I arrived there almost an hour after we had left the Yard. It had begun to pour down and the streets became increasingly slippery with the trampled horse manure and the cobblestones. Gusts of wind made the carriage sway precariously and had it not been for this most interesting case, I would not have minded at all, to have spent this Saturday afternoon bunked down on the sofa with a good book and my wife. - Though the book was dispensable.

Climbing out of the carriage, all three of us ran for shelter, as the cold rain was drenching us thoroughly even with the few steps we had to take and I felt extremely sorry for the cabby, as he sat there in his oilskin overcoat and the practical but undignified looking sou'wester.

“So, what now?” Lestrade asked as we pushed open one of the heavy doors to enter the wide expanse of the market hall, lined with stalls and booths mainly offering meat though some also had poultry on offer.

Smithfield Market was a noisy place, the voices echoed from the bare walls and the vaulted ceiling. Animals cried, bellowed and grunted and the overall smell of dried as well as fresh blood was fairly sickening in its amount. - Not that the autopsy room had smelled that much different, but it had just not been the amount of blood that splattered the tiled floor here, only to slowly seep into the clogged drains, where it congealed and clotted, together with the hair and bristles that had fallen to the ground likewise.

“This makes me appreciate to have grown up in the country, where the procedure of slaughtering is quick and does not stress the animal,” Harriet remarked, looking around herself with stoic interest. Had I not known any better, I would have almost thought, that her interest was posed, with her being just a little too composed. As a matter of fact, she looked slightly ill, as she stood there, face pale and lips pressed firmly together.

Me, being a country boy myself, knew exactly what she meant. The place was reeking with the stench of distressed beasts, so very different from the home slaughtered animals I knew from my childhood days. Turning around a corner, I walked over to the stall of a butcher I had once helped out and who was always willing to help me since. 

“Mr Holmes!” he greeted, wiping his soiled hands on his stained canvas apron before reaching out to take my outstretched hand. 

“Mr Hanson, how are you doing?”

“Very well, very well. Thanks to you, sir.” the broad-shouldered man beamed as if Christmas had come early. But then again, when I had first met him in 1888, he had been in dire straits indeed, being suspected of murdering several women in the East End.

“I am glad it turned out for you after all. But today, I would actually need a bit of help from you.” I smiled.

His eyes widened in surprise, but then his lined features showed a smile that few people would have given this man credit for. “It would be my pleasure, Mr Holmes. But how can a simple man like me, possibly help you? Unless you are looking for a particularly juicy cut of meat.”

“That I do as well. What would you recommend for a Sunday roast?”

“How about a nice bit of roast beef? I mean, who can say no to that? With a couple of tatties and some beans?”

“That, Hanson, sounds like a very good plan, you have me convinced. But for the now, I would be grateful, if I could try out something with this incredible thing here. If I may, I would like to see, whether it can cut through that front half of the pig over there.” I had taken out the wire saw and the sturdy butcher looked at it with surprise. 

“Cut something with that bit of wire?” he snorted. “Knock yourself out.”

I took off my overcoat and handed it to Hattie, then wound the wire around the pig's neck and pulled crosswise and only moving it slightly back and forth. It went through the skin and muscle like a warm knife through butter.

“Dear me!” Hanson gasped. “What is that thing? I could sure use it here.”

“We think it is called a wire saw. It is used in stonemasonry, apparently.” Lestrade answered. “I would not have thought it would go through it this effortlessly.”

“No, me neither...” Harriet mused, biting her lip once again.

“What is it, dear?” I asked, seeing her sceptical expression.

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if I could have a go as well.”

And taking the tool from my hands and handing me back my coat, she stepped to the dead animal and just as I had done, cut through the flesh of the creature without much struggle and only when she reached the bone, did she meet with resistance.

“That is incredible, Doctor!” The inspector cried out.

“Yes, I agree. I had not thought this thing to be this efficient,” she admitted, looking astonished at her own handiwork. 

“So, now there is only one thing to do,” I concluded. “Choosing the beef.”

xxx

Harriet:

The rain had not stopped when we exited the huge market hall and for lack of a cab, all three of us made our way towards the nearest underground station, reaching it thoroughly soaked and slightly cranky.

“And now, what are you going to do with the information gathered?” Lestrade asked, wiping his face with his handkerchief.

“Think about it,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly, lighting himself a cigarette.

“And the widow?”

“What's with her?”

“Are you not going to talk to her?” the official asked irritated, sneezing twice.

“I will, eventually. But I think I rather talk to the man's colleagues first.” he was answered as Sherlock rather hastily smoked his cigarette. “Where was it, that he worked?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” the inspector asked evasively, after blowing his nose. “I had enough on my hands trying to get any information out of these people as it is. It did not occur to me, that the man's occupation might be an issue.”

“Where do they live then?”

“No. 8 Somers Road, Brixton for the son and his wife and the widow lives at Havillier House, Lower Richmond Road, Putney.”

Taking out his notebook and scribbling down the addresses, Sherlock then ripped out another sheet, made a note and handed it to a dour looking footboy of roughly twelve years old that had sought shelter in the underground station likewise. 

“Could you please deliver this to 221 B Baker Street? It's for Tom.” the boy wanted to reply something, his attitude being abrasive, but before he could do so, he was cut off by my spouse. “Don't worry, you will be paid and I also pay your fare, so you can take a ride on the underground, instead of heading out in this weather.”

The boy's eyes fixed on the gleaming crown that was held up for him. “All right, governor.” he agreed and snatched the held up coin and note quickly before holding out his hand for his fare, which followed suit and off he dashed, down the stairs and onto the platform.

“And where are we going now?” I enquired, shivering slightly in my wet dress and petticoat.

“I think you should go home, before you catch a cold, Harriet and I will go to Havillier House and pay a visit there. Are you coming, Lestrade?”

“I would, but I have to get back to the Yard. This murder is not the only case I am currently working on. There is also the Kershaw robbery case, that the Superintendent asked me to look into. - Again!”

My husband looked incredulously at the official. “But Kershaw was hanged eight months ago, was he not?”

“He was, and there is little doubt, that it had been him. But the jewels are still missing and now the heir has turned up, finally having made his way across the Atlantic and is making a big fuss about us not having found his valuables. Truth be told, that bloke makes Kershaw appear like a decent fellow. Anyway, I have to find those blasted jewels. If I only knew where to look for them. But they seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“You know where to find me in case you want for my help.”

Lestrade nodded, tipped the brim of his bowler hat, sighed theatrically and slowly walked down the stairs, reaching the platform just in time for the train to arrive.

“Should you not get changed first, too? You are just as likely to catch a cold, seeing you are just as wet.” I suggested, shivering. “You know, Putney is just a little down the river from Chiswick and there is a bridge.”

“Be honest, Hattie, you want to come, too.” my husband teased, cocking an eyebrow before his usual boyish smile conquered his face and made my heart skip a beat.

“Yes. You caught me.”

xxx

Havillier House was a modern building of fairly extensive proportions and a pathetic front garden, looking even worse in the pelting November rain. The blinds and curtains were all drawn and it looked astonishingly eerie for a whitewashed house with large windows and a bright red door, flanked by two narrow benches, covered by an elegantly sloping porch roof and a trellis on either side.

“Well, at least we don't need to go anywhere else to find his office...” Sherlock pointed at a large-sized brass plate on the side of the entrance, that gave the name of the house as well as the name and occupation of its owner and hence showed, that he had not just lived, but also worked there.

The door was opened on the third ring, by a wretched looking housemaid, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks pale.

“Sir, Madam, I am sorry, but we are in mourning, I must ask you to come again another day,” she said with a small curtsey, fully prepared to close the door into our faces, had it not been for the interference of young Mr Thompson himself.

“No, wait, Betty, I know these people and they know what has happened. I actually would like to have a word with them. - Please, Doctor Holmes, Sir, would you come in?”

“I thought we might find you here,” Sherlock said, taking the man's hand and introducing himself.

“My stepmother is not feeling very well. She did not know about my father's troubles and it was quite a shock to her. She is upstairs and asleep, I believe. At any rate, the doctor recommended for her to stay in bed.”

“Then it was not one for you? A shock, I mean.” my husband raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, as I had told him about what Thompson had said on our way to the Yard, earlier in the day.

“No, no it was not a surprise. Not really. I just thought that we would be safe in a theatre. But it seems I have been wrong in that assumption.”

“So, he had been threatened?” Sherlock dug deeper. But as if he only now became aware of talking to two people he had never met before yesterday, Thompson bit his tongue and instead led us into a small sitting room that seemed to be the antechamber of the deceased man's study. - The door to it was slightly ajar and afforded a view of a very neat and tidy desk, much unlike mine or my husbands.

“Doctor Holmes, you have been the first to see my father, please, I just need to know how he has died. The police did not want to tell me anything last night and I do wonder...”

“What do you wonder? He did not poison himself if that is what you are worried about.”

There was a faint expression of relief. As unfitting as it always appeared, there was an honest threat to the bereaved, had the deceased committed suicide in regards to the inheritance and possible insurance claims and many a family had been left in destitution due to such a situation. After half a minute he nodded demurely. 

“Yes, I was worried about that,” he admitted, looking embarrassed. “He sometimes was quite liberal in his use of Laudanum, and the dosages went higher and higher.”

“Do not worry, he indeed had been murdered. He died of a stroke induced by an injection of air into his arteries.”

“That does not sound very deadly. I was not aware air could do that.” The surprise on the son's face was evident as he slumped down on one of the armchairs.

“He was also almost decapitated,” I carried on matter of factly. “And he hardly could have done that himself.”

“What?” he cried out, staring at me in utter disbelief as if he thought he had not heard me right.

“When I saw him first all that held his head in place were the ligaments of his spine - and the starched collar of his dress shirt.” I specified, seeing from the corners of my eyes, that Sherlock was busy observing the room in an inconspicuous manner.

It was an austere room, that matched the front garden quite well. Though the furniture was tasteful, it lacked a cosy touch and looked rather barren, an impression heightened by the drawn blinds that only allowed in little light. The settee was decidedly uncomfortable and the same applied to the armchairs. The picture above the far too small fireplace, the grate empty and cold, was one of the usual prints found in an English middle class home, though perhaps it was a bit more daring than was customary for such a public part of the house, depicting a plump brunette with a surplus of bosom and a deficiency of dress. 

“Your father worked as a stonemason?” Sherlock suddenly asked, leaning against the door frame to the study, as he had been the only one who had not sat down.

“He used to. Nowadays he earns – well, earned - more money with designing ornaments for mainly public architectural projects.”

“And that was able to sustain him?” my husband asked interestedly.

“I have not yet received his papers, seeing that it is the weekend, but it must have.”

“May I have a look around his study?”

“But of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The murdering of women in 1888 in London's East End should ring a bell...


	17. Murder at the Matinée - Part 7

Murder at the matinée – Part 7

Sherlock:

The young Charles Thompson was surprisingly complying as he showed us into his father's study, so I could take a look at his father's correspondence and those papers that he kept there. There almost seemed to be a kind of relief, that it was me, searching through the study and not the police. As I set to work, I felt his eager gaze on me, never wavering, as I looked around the room assessing what to do first. It was a room, that at the same time managed to look airy and oppressive. The ceiling was high, the windows behind the desk tall and wide, the wallpaper a dull green, the carpet brownish and the furniture dark and imposing. It was a fairly large room, and tidy to an extent, that it appeared almost uninhabited. Well, now of course it was, but I doubted that it had ever been any less neat. 

Walking over to the impeccably looking desk, I sat down in the comfortable chair behind it and began opening the drawers one by one. The first contained nothing but a stack of empty sheets of paper, the second was stuffed with pencils, charcoal pens, and a box of replacement nibs for the man's dipping pens, which were stored neatly on top of the polished silver-coated desk set, with a well of red, violet and black ink. The third drawer was locked and when I asked the son, he admitted, that he did not know where to find the key, but was willing to ask his stepmother for it. He returned with the message, that his father's key rings must still be with the police. Of course!

“I really have no idea, how we could possibly open the lock...” Charles Thompson the younger looked at a loss, scratching his head.

“But I do.” Astonished I gazed at Harriet, who stood there with a sly grin on her face. 

“And how?” I, at last, asked, exceedingly curious.

“By employing the help of your lockpicking wife,” she replied, taking out one of her hairpins.

“Do I want to know, why you of all people can pick locks, my dear? Or rather not?” I enquired, raising my eyebrows.

“Perhaps the latter, but if I say so, it would only intrigue you more.” she quipped and had a point.

Kneeling down next to where I sat, she got to work and in an astonishingly short amount of time had managed to unlock the drawer, without leaving the smallest scratch. 

“There you are.” my wife smiled cheekily, scrambling back to her feet, straightening her skirts.

Shaking my head slightly, I pulled the remaining drawer open, to reveal an array of neatly bundled correspondence. Most of the letters were on business, very few personal and one stack seemed to be about what the son had referred to – threats. 

“These are the ones, I have mentioned.” the son said softly, avoiding my eyes as if in embarrassment. 

If you don't pay up, I will get the money by force, you lying blackguard. W. W. 

You owe me, Charles. Never bite the hand that feeds you or it beats you! W. W.

Charlie, you conniving son of a bitch! My patience is running short, you will reap what you sowed at last. W. W.

And so forth. The messages were all fairly similar, some even having the exact same wording, but there were certainly many of them and only Charles Thompson the elder would have really known, what they were about. 

“You would not know who this W. W. is, would you, Mr Thompson?” I asked, going through all the letters of that pile, which all sounded pretty similar. 

The son shook his head, staring into space as if contemplating, then said in a quiet voice: “No.”

I took out my magnifying glass and had a closer look at the epistles, however. The paper was of ordinary quality, the ink a dark almost blackish blue, the handwriting was rather scrawny, as if the paper had slipped a couple of times, which also went with the wrinkled-up state of the sheets, and it was blotted here and there, but never so much so as to obliterate a word. There was no watermark, but I was almost certain it was from a paper mill only north of London, that sold their product for tuppence for a pack of five dozens of quarter sized sheets and was hence one of the commonest brands. In other words, not much to go on. The envelopes were blank, except for the name of the recipient and there was neither a postage stamp nor an address so that the letters must have been delivered either in person or by messenger. As there was no date on any of them – and no date stamp either, I could not even be sure, whether they were old, or have been written recently, and the paper itself, having been stored in the dark, had not yet yellowed. Though under these conditions, it could take years to do so. 

The handwriting was clearly male and despite its scrawniness quite energetic. - The writer seemed to have a certain amount of self-importance judging by the expanse and hight of the upper cases and the descenders of the lower cases, which looped widely and reached almost into the line below.

Sitting back, I stared into space for a couple of minutes, trying to gather my thoughts, before beginning to look for the flap of the hidden compartment that had caught my attention. While Harriet, who had sat down in a chair on the other side of the desk, followed my actions with mild curiosity, Thompson had resorted to walking back and forth in growing agitation. A spring on the underside of the locked drawer, at last, released it and I found yet another stack of letters. - Threatening ones.

“What is that?” Thompson exclaimed, looking pale and wide-eyed. 

“More letters that threatened your father. Just that this time, this W. W. seems to have stepped it up a notch – or two.” I answered while reading through the first two notes with a feeling of acute uneasiness.

Pay up! Just place ₤ 500 into an envelope and hide it in the old tree on the common. If not, something will happen to your daughter W. W.

You can run, but you can't hide! The money, Charles. The usual amount at the usual spot, if you please. W. W. 

My patience is running, short, I want my money. How dare you not pay your dues! Remember that pretty little daughter of yours. - You love her, don't you? W. W.

Again a whole stack of mysterious messages, but something was off, clearly. The handwriting was not the same for a start, but I did not remark on it just now. It was not completely dissimilar, but decidedly not the same. The paper was different, too and there was not the slightest wrinkle on any of the sheets. The envelopes were slightly more informative than the ones from the other stack, as each of these contained a postmark, giving the point of origin as various places all across London. Well, that would not help me find W. W., but at least I could establish, that these letters were fairly recent, the last one only from five days ago, which considering the happenings, made them likely to have been written by the murderer. 

But what could it mean, that there have been two stacks? - Well, two different authors, of course. But how? How could that be? And why? Also, while the first pile suggested money to be owed, these other letters smacked strongly of blackmail, and as it appeared, Thompson must have paid up, at least on occasion. 

Did he know, that they were from different people? Thinking of how he had kept the letters, it was likely. And if so, he must have had an inkling, who had written them. 

“Do you mind, if I smoke, madame?” Thompson suddenly asked, turning towards Harriet in an erratic manner.

“Well, yes, of course. It is not as if my husband does not smoke either.” she smiled, reaching for the stack of letters I had already set aside, to have a look at them, too.

Thompson lit his cigar and dragged at it nervously. “I am sorry, but this business is most difficult to deal with.” he excused himself, carrying on walking to and fro. 

“Mr Thompson, where does your sister live?” I enquired, wondering if the woman might be in danger.

“She lives here, of course.” the young man looked bewildered. “Where else would she live?”

“I take it, she is unmarried?”

“Excuse me?” he gasped, coughing as I had caught him unawares, almost laughing out loud. “Yes, she is, of course.” 

“Mr Thompson, how old is your sister?” I asked, putting my magnifying glass aside, at last, starting to get irritated.

“Eighteen months,” he answered, managing to compose himself at last.

“Are you and her the only children?”

“Yes, there once has been an older sister of mine, but she has died even before I was born.” Thompson now stood in front of the desk, right next to my wife, who was still busy reading the letters.

“And your stepmother has no...” I was, to my dismay, interrupted by my wife, throwing the letters onto the desk, quickly wrapping her coat around herself and hurrying out of the door.

“If you just excuse me, I just need to step outside for a minute,” Harriet whispered, looking pale. I stared after her in concern, my annoyance waning in an instant.

“If you'll just excuse me, sir.” I excused myself, rushing after my wife. I found her, leaning against the side of the front door, breathing deeply as if to stop herself from heaving.

“Good God, what is the matter, my dear? Are you well?” It was perhaps not the most intelligent question to ask, as she obviously was not, but what else could I have said?

“I'll be fine, I just needed a bit of fresh air. The room was quite stuffy, don't you think?” she gasped, still looking wretched. I tried to remember if it had been, but could not. I had been too distracted by my work to notice. 

“Why don't you go back in and finish what you need to?” Harriet smiled bravely. “I'll come back in in a couple of minutes.” 

With yet another concerned glance, I stepped back into the house and carried on with my task. But there was not much, that caught my attention, at least at first. A filing cabinet contained the dead man's professional drafts, that were indeed quite good and would certainly have made him a bit of money. There also were a few books on architecture and on art, nothing that was not to be expected. As neat as the office was, everything had its place and nothing seemed to be out of it. 

At long last, I reached a small display cabinet that was tucked away behind the door. It held a few items of intricately carved Maori sculptures. Tiny, but most beautifully done. 

“Your father must have been very fascinated by this culture,” I remarked, noting that my wife had not yet returned.

“He was. It was what influenced him. He managed to combine traditional English stonemasonry with the art of the Maori. This idea was quite revolutionary and he was hired to erect some public buildings. And after that, many rich people were keen on hiring him as well. Then there was the accident.”

“What accident?” I enquired, ignoring my growing feeling of uneasiness.

“On one of the building sites, a newly built wall fell apart. You must know that in parts of New Zealand the ground is not as stable as it is here and somehow this wall, instead of being built on solid ground, was built on weak soil and just fell, burying six men underneath it. My father was hit on the head, by a stone, sustaining a head injury and his companion lost his left hand. One man died, but the others got away basically unscathed.”

“When did that happen?”

“Close to twenty years ago. I was still a boy.”

“Your father's companion, did he come to England, too?”

“No, he stayed in New Zealand, if I recall it correctly.” Charles Thompson the son replied, looking at the same time contemplative and evasive. “He blamed my father for what happened and after the accident, I never really saw him again. He never so much as greeted us, when we met in the street.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I called him Uncle Bill. But had you not asked, I am quite sure I would have forgotten all about him.”

“And your father returned to England after this accident? Straight away, or after a couple of years?”

“We moved to England after my mother's death, that was fifteen years ago.”

“Could I take these letters with me?” I asked the young man. Thompson only shrugged his shoulders, looking wary again.

“If you have to,” he answered, neither unfriendly nor complying.

Pocketing the epistles, I thanked the man, bowed and stepped outside, overtaken by worry about my wife. Harriet now sat on one of the benches, looking embarrassed and on the brink of tears, and seemed to be extremely tired. It had long gotten dark and we had been on our feet since the morning, never stopping so much as to eat or sit down, other when we were in a cab or the underground. 

“You, my dear, will be packed into bed as soon as we are home,” I stated matter of factly, berating myself, for not having taken better care of her. “You have been looking peaky for a couple of days – with the exception of yesterday - and I cannot allow you to ruin your health.”

She wanted to contradict me, I could see it clearly, but one look into my face was enough to convince her, that I would not tolerate any opposition for once. Smiling exhaustedly, she took my arm and when we had climbed into a Hansom it took but a moment and she was asleep, leaning against my shoulder.


	18. Murder at the Matinée - Part 8

Murder at the matinée – Part 8

 

Sherlock:

Tom had, as I had asked him to, arrived sometime during the afternoon, lit the fires and prepared some tea, and so, on coming home, I did as I had threatened. Helping my wife to undress, I tucked her into bed, so she could take a rest until dinner was ready. 

“I am sorry, Sherlock,” Harriet whispered apologetically when I had wrapped the blanket around her, throwing her arms around my neck. “I hope I have not ruined anything. I just, I really...” 

Raising an eyebrow in expectation, I smiled at her. She sighed deeply, pulling me closer. 

“I just think Winchester is catching up on me at last. It had to happen eventually, I suppose,” she stuttered and with that, she began crying into my shoulder. “I know this is so silly of me. I am quite overcome by this all of a sudden. I have been so scared – one moment I’m a free woman trying to help out a friend and the next she is my worst enemy trying to inflict pain and force me, against all that is right and decent, to denounce my findings – at gunpoint! I had to shoot her, Sherlock. I had to. And the worst is, I am not even sorry I did. I am not sorry I have killed someone. What kind of person am I?” 

Having expected this reaction for some time, I was not overly surprised by her breakdown, but for the time it had taken for her to do so. Having been threatened, abducted, beaten, nearly killed, shot a person in self-defence, having several children die in her arms and in the process having ended up married to me. And when that case was solved she had helped me to find the man who had killed my best friends son, only to go out on an invitation from her best friend and be called to an emergency which turned out to be a murder. Admittedly this was quite a bit to take in within the amount of little more than three weeks, during which she had also begun to work again. Glancing at the cot that still stood in the corner of our bedroom, I wondered, when before that, she had slept through a whole night the last time, without being awoken by a tiny baby wanting to be fed. It was more than natural, that she was mentally as well as physically exhausted and I told her so. It was a feeling I myself knew all too well. 

“You, my dear, are a wonderful and dedicated person with a good sense of what is right and what isn’t. Rhea Hayward was a maniac and you stopped her and I do think that deep within yourself, you are very aware, that only her death would keep her from manipulating any more people. With her ability I dare say, she would have found a prison guard who was willing to set her free under the pretence of her being wrongfully convicted. Everything is all right, my love. You are not a heartless creature by not feeling guilty for having killed her.” I assured her soothingly, holding her tightly, caressing her hair. “I confess, I had some trouble dealing with the last two cases myself. They were a little too close for comfort. Now rest a bit, while I take care of dinner.”

“I am not sure I want any,” Harriet answered evasively, tears still flowing from her eyes. 

“You will have to eat, Hattie.”

“I know. But I am not sure if I can stomach anything. I have been feeling queasy for a few days now, you are right there. Something must have upset my stomach or it might just be the stress or both. I am all right most of the time, but some smells just make me feel virtually sick.”

“Like Mrs Fraser's mussels? Or my experiment? Or Mr Thompson's cigar?” I remembered, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Yes. I am quite sensitive at the moment and it really irritates me. It is as if everything suddenly smells so much stronger as before. I just wish I would get actually sick and be done with it instead of feeling nauseous at the most inconvenient of times.” she sighed. 

“So, what would you like to eat?” I returned to the initial problem at hand. “I insist, you will have to eat something.”

“What can you cook?” now it was her, who was the one raising an eyebrow at me, the tiniest hint of a smile playing on her lips.

I chuckled at the justified question. I was well capable of producing something that was edible but admittedly was limited in the variety of dishes I could make.

“How about pancakes?” I offered. 

“That, Sherlock, sounds wonderful. I think of all the dishes you could have chosen, this is the one, I might actually be able to keep down.”

xxx

Harriet had tucked in with astonishing appetite, considering her previous objection and curling up in bed once again, with a hot water bottle and a book, she soon dozed off. Tom had been packed off to bed likewise by me and while now everyone around me was fast asleep, I settled myself in my wife's study just across the corridor from her and took to examining the letters once again. 

Using Harriet's microscope, I first had a closer look at the first set of letters I had found. It indeed looked like the ordinary paper I had assumed it to be at first glance. The ink was equally ordinary and so I only wrote down the most prominent characteristics of the handwriting: right handed, strong-willed, bordering arrogance, energetic, physical strength, fairly educated. I wondered if a chemical analysis of the paper and ink would get me anywhere but actually doubted it, though I would have to seek reference in my extensive archive about the distribution of the brand of writing paper I suspected this to be. 

I eventually carried on with examining the envelopes. Despite the lack of address, they still posed a more fertile ground than the actual letters. The paper they were made out of, was equally ordinary, but the glue it had been closed with, was most extraordinary. It was neither gum arabic, nor a bone or starch-based glue, but a substance I had never come across before in this form or with this use. It looked like a kind of resin, with its light amber colour and the intricate smell. Highly unusual indeed. And yet another thing I would need to look up on. 

After I had gotten as much information as I could – which was not much at all, I carried on with the second stack of letters. Before comparing them, I fared with them exactly the same way that I had done with the others. And once more the microscope did not tell me much, apart from that the paper was of better quality and from a different mill. The envelopes were closed with ordinary gumming, again indicating, that they had been slightly more expensive than the other ones, where the glue had to be applied by the user. The ink was as ordinary as the other one, though a different colour, then again, that did not say much. I knew many people – myself included – who bought ink as it was needed, never caring much if it had the same shade than the one previously used. 

Once more I looked at the characteristics of the handwriting. They were most certainly not from the same person, despite equally towering upper cases and similarly sloping lower ones – but there the similarity ended. This writer had been educated, was arrogant, yet weak, was considerably younger and had less energy than the other one had had. 

Then, I preceded to compare both stacks of letters with one another. And again, there was not much that caught my attention now, that had not caught my attention earlier in the day already. 

That meant, after some consideration, that one writer must be the real W. W., while the other one was merely posing as him. And I tended towards the first set of letters being the original ones and the second being the ones from the imposter. But how, would the imposter have known about the threats in the first place? Had perhaps Thompson himself told him about them? Or this W. W.?

At long last, I was slowly beginning to tire, I had a look at the postmarks. Not one of them appeared twice and none of the letters had been sent more than eight months ago – another indicator, that they were written, perhaps even years, after the first set. But then it struck me, that they all came from roughly the same area. Flipping through Harriet's desk I dug up her map of London and marked out the post offices where they had been posted. What appeared was a wide radius spanning from Clapham, Norwood, Dulwich, Peckham, Camberwell, Lambeth to Battersea, closing the circle. What caught my attention, was the conspicuous absence of Brixton, that sat right in the middle of the said circle. 

Leaning back in Hattie's comfortable chair, I stuffed and lit my pipe, losing myself in my own thoughts and speculations. It was one o'clock in the morning, when I came to the conclusion, that though I was onto something, I needed more data to proceed. But a suspicion had been born, and now it needed to be either confirmed or discarded. 

Undressing and washing quickly, I slipped into bed beside my wife, who was fortunately still sleeping soundly, the book having slipped from her grasp, lying on the floor. Propping the cold hot water bottle onto my nightstand, as it had ended up on my side of the bed, I snuggled up to Harriet, my hand on her upset stomach and closed my eyes.

xxx

Harriet: 

I woke up the next morning to the cheerful singing of our little page boy as he descended the stairs to once more perform his duties. The slight clatter a few minutes later showed he was already busy re-filling the coal scuttles. 

“Oh dear, I wish I was that cheerful in the mornings,” I growled, before turning around in my husband's arms and leaned my head against his chest. My eyes still burned from last nights cry. But a few instances later I had to laugh at myself and the cheerful little imp trudging across the hallway, preparing our creature comforts.

“Feeling better?” Sherlock inquired, opening his eyes and smiling warmly at me. 

“A bit. Decidedly better than last night. - Have you found out something?” I asked, being curious and wanting for some distraction from my discomfort and the dark thoughts still threateningly close to the surface of my conscience.

“Yes. But I'll need to get over to Baker Street later and look up on a few things. Are you coming or are you taking a rest from this exhausting husband of yours?” he once again employed his boyish grin, well knowing that I found it irresistible. Holding me tightly in his arms, he began rubbing my back.

“That feels good. It helps with the aching.” I sighed, enjoying the relieving sensation – but unfortunately not for long, as he sat up, looking alarmed.

“What aching?” 

“Oh, nothing to worry about, Sherlock. It is just this… - this… Well, you know what,” I rubbed my sore stomach. 

He gaped at my midsection, obviously not understanding, what I had meant and I could almost see him draw the wrong conclusion. Feeling the well-known warmth of sticky moisture trickle down my leg, I got slightly uncomfortable and decided it was time to get up and traipse into the bathroom. It certainly explained, why now of all times, I felt the impact of my adventures in Winchester catch up on me, even though normally I had hardly any trouble of the kind.

“Harriet, you are bleeding!” turning around I saw my husband stare at me with great worry, his eyes fixed on the blood stain on my nightgown. 

“Yes, I know,” I replied calmly. “I have actually been waiting for this to happen for a couple of days now. Everything is all right.” 

I refrained from adding that the lateness of the event had part of me worried while the other had been oddly hopeful. 

He did not sound convinced, when he answered, but rather incredulous: “You have waited for this? … - Has it ever happened before?”

“Of course it has happened before. It happens every month. Though I am hardly ever so knocked off my feet as I am this time around,” I laughed, despite my discomfort, wheeling around to shrug my shoulders at him. The sudden movement made me feel queasy again. I really did not like having an upset stomach. I would have to see to that as it became increasingly annoying.

“You do not seem to be overly concerned,” he dug deeper.

“No, it's normal,” was all I could manage before covering my mouth, as I had to dash into the bathroom, feeling my stomach turn.

Within seconds Sherlock was by my side, his face white, looking almost as wretched as I felt. 

“Is there anything I can do, to help you?” he, at last, enquired, when I had cleaned myself up, reaching for the uncomfortable belt I hid in the cupboard underneath the wash basin, ignoring his curious glances. 

“A slice of dry bread would be greatly appreciated. I need to settle my stomach.” 

I felt quite embarrassed at the situation. Feeling silly for having lost my stomach contents, I reminded myself, that I had felt a slight bout of flu creep up on me for the whole of last week. I had been tired, felt often either overheated or too cold and never all too well, especially when something smelled off somehow. That, combined with the emotional exhaustion had done it and now, on top of that, I was struck down with this curse of being a woman. I felt like crying again but managed to keep the tears at bay – for the moment.

As soon as Sherlock had left, I fixed the belt around my waist with a sigh and attached one of my sanitary towels to it. Slipping into a chemise and petticoat, I dressed in my comfortable tea gown, passing on the corset for today, so I could literally slump down on the settee if I fancied to and so made my way downstairs, meeting my husband halfway up, handing me the requested slice of bread.

“I thought you might want it toasted.” he offered and I bit into it carefully, even before thanking him, my stomach still quite unsettled.

xxx

“So, you said you have found something? Is there any way I can give you a hand?” I asked eagerly, feeling much better in comparison after breakfast.

“I have found something and I will actually need to go over to Baker Street and look up a couple of things. As for you, one thing comes to mind that you could do for me...” there was a sly smirk on his face and cautiously I enquired what that might be.

“Take a rest,” was the offhand answer, as he put his cup to his lips and sipped some of the steaming hot tea.

“That is not exactly helping you, Sherlock.”

“Not professionally, but as a husband,” he deadpanned. “For it saves me the trouble of worrying over my sick wife.”

Had it not been for his cheeky expression, it would have been a most unwelcome reply. But as it was, the sparkle in his eyes made it clear that he was teasing me.

“So, will you rest?” he asked, his face turning serious again. 

I had to admit that I wanted to do so, very much. Once more curling up with a hot water bottle somewhere comfortable and do nothing but cry, read or doze all day long. - Oh, the vices of idleness! Sometimes they just could not be avoided.

“Then do so and I'll be back before dinner. Speaking of dinner, Tom, has there been a delivery yesterday?”

He looked at the boy by his side, slurping his milk, a white 'moustache' covering his upper lip. 

“Yes, Mr Holmes, there has been from the butcher's. Said it was already paid for. I brought it into the larder, I hope that was all right...” was the eager answer. 

“Perfectly so,” Sherlock replied and then indicated to the boy, that he sported a milksop, by rubbing his index over his own upper lip with an amused smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry I had to resort to the “red curse”, but I thought Harriet dealt a bit too well with everything and I needed something to trigger her breakdown. - Every girl knows this is a VERY good reason! And that stress makes it ten times worse I hardly need to add, do I?
> 
> Also, Holmes not knowing about that bit of a woman's existence is a reference to his claim that he never bothers learning anything about something irrelevant for his line of work... - And besides, it was something that wasn't commonly addressed at the time and definitely not publicly and in front of a man/boy. It's not as if one walked into a pharmacy and had rows and rows with tampons and pads lined up that made it somehow obvious that there is something like that going on.


	19. Murder at the Matinée - Part 9

Murder at the matinée – Part 9

Sherlock:

Arriving at Baker Street, I ran straight into the arms of my landlady. 

“Is there something the matter, Mrs Hudson?” I asked her, seeing the relief on her face.

“No, I am just surprised that my telegram reached you so quickly,” she told me, wiping her hands on her apron.

“It has not, but I take it is a matter of importance?”

“Oh yes! There has been a man here very early this morning, wanting to speak to you, Mr Holmes, but when I told him you were not at home, he left again, leaving his card and said he would return at around eleven. He seemed very agitated and all the while walked up and down as if he could not bear to sit still.”

Looking at my watch I saw that the man would be here in about one hour.

“Did he say, why he wanted to see me?” 

“He said it was about a murder at a theatre on Friday. Said he had some important information but could or would not go to the police and hence wanted to employ you.” she replied. “I have put the card on the dining table, sir.”

I gaped at her in surprise. Was this a coincidence or had young Mr Thompson sent the man here? Or perhaps Lestrade?

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” I acknowledged before remembering something else: “By the way, did Watson say, when his wife will return? I believe he has told me, but I cannot remember.”

Shaking her head in exasperated amusement, she told me that Mary Watson would return next Saturday. Thanking her, I walked up the thirteen steps to my living room and hanging up my coat and hat, I took the card from the table to have a look at it.

William Atkins  
Architectural Engineering  
38 Tollington Road  
Holloway

Recalling one letter of business amongst Thompson's correspondence, I was sure I had come across the name before. 

Asking Mrs Hudson for a cup of tea, I went to find out about the paper by digging through my extensive archive, only to find, that the particular brand I had had in mind, was distributed across the whole of the empire and thus proved to be a dead end. The glue, however, was a different matter, as I had expected. I found an old newspaper clipping about a new kind of resin-based glue that had been developed by a scientist in Auckland, who had been working on finding actual uses for sawdust and thought that this might be the answer. As a product, it had never reached England, but for a while had been popular in New Zealand for its cheapness. Eventually, it had been discontinued about five years ago, as it lost its property too quickly and whatever had been glued together with it, fell apart after a relatively short amount of time. 

So, what could I conclude from this? That the letters had been written in New Zealand, and as they had not been sent by post, they must have been delivered to an address there as well. Thompson had left the country about fifteen years ago, so the letters must pre-date this time. Which in turn meant, that between the second bundle of letters and the first one, was a gap of at least fourteen years. Did it take this long for W. W. to find out where Thompson had disappeared to? It was possible. 

Looking at the clock on the mantelpiece I saw that my mysterious visitor was almost due to arrive. Clearing the second armchair from the papers I had strewn across it, I straightened my appearance and waited, my thoughts wandering off to my wife. I was still slightly unsettled by her bleeding this morning and my heart clenched at the thought, that… - No, I would not go there. Not yet anyway. 

When William Atkins was led into my room, my jaw dropped. I had seen this man before, seen him stare angrily at the Thompson's. He was the gentleman that had caught my attention because of his fierce expression. Now, that he stood before me, he looked tired and worn, he held out his hand, smiling apologetically.

“I am very sorry, Mr Holmes, to disturb you on a Sunday morning. I would not have done so, had it not been important. Last night, I have received this letter from my friend – my late friend, I should say – Charles Thompson, who had left it with his lawyer to be sent to me upon his death. I am not sure if you are aware that there has been a murder down at the Lyceum Theatre last Friday. - But I am rambling...” he looked around him and took off his coat, which gave me the opportunity to see, that his left hand, appeared to be in an unnatural position, stiff and almost claw-like. And while on his left, he was wearing a tan coloured leather glove, that he did not attempt to take off, the right, was bare, the fingers calloused and the palm rough as if he was used to working with it heavily, compensating for the loss of his other hand.

“I am aware of that, I was there,” I answered dryly.

His eyes widened, as he looked at me more closely, then he smiled in recognition. 

“Oh yes, I remember, you were with that pretty lady in the blue dress.”

I was slightly taken aback but had to agree, I had been and he had seen me with Harriet, what was there to deny?

“Yes, that was me,” I answered evasively, not very keen on attracting attention to the fact, that I was married to said pretty lady. One never knew this might still be a ruse. 

“Then you know about how he died? That is just as well, as it saves me from a lot of explaining.” he sighed, sitting down.

“Now, I think, before I start rambling again, I should first read Charles' letter to you and then you can ask, whatever you want. I want to find my friends killer. He has been most abominably used.”

“Have you known Charles Thompson for long?” I asked, lighting a pipe.

“For the better part of my life. I was born and raised on a sheep farm near Wellington in New Zealand. I met with Charles when we were both in our early twenties. He worked as a stonemason and I had just begun to work for the government to oversee any public building projects. He was a nice enough chap and over the years we became close friends. His first wife was my sister. Laura died in childbed along with her daughter. She had been so young, so sweet, but it was not to be.”

“So the mother of Charles junior was already his second wife?”

“Yes. She gave him comfort and love, being a young widow herself and he married her as soon as he was out of mourning.” If it bothered the man that his sister had been replaced this easily, he did not show it.

“And the boy is actually his son?”

“Yes, Charley is his son. Greta was a good wife, I liked her. She, too, died too early. It left her son unsettled and he became quite ill and he was almost despaired off. It was a most difficult time for my friend. At long last, Charles decided, that a change of situation might be in order and he returned to England.”

“That was fifteen years ago?”

William Atkins looked at me astonished. “Yes, it was.”

“Your hand? You have not coincidentally lost it during an accident on one of the building sites?” I dug deeper.

“I have,” Atkins answered bewildered. “A newly erected wall fell apart. It buried several men underneath, Charles suffered a severe head wound and I lost my hand.” he held up his left.

“Have you ever blamed Charles Thompson for it?”

“No, why would I? He was only there to take measures for the carved cornerstones, he was to supply. He had nothing to do with the building itself. We walked together from one corner to the other and then it happened.” 

I re-stuffed my pipe, offering Atkins a cigar. He declined politely.

Deciding that a straight approach might be in order I asked him bluntly, whether he knew someone with the initials of W. W. The result was quite extraordinary. First Atkins turned pale, then he shrugged and began chuckling.

“Yes, that would be me, Mr Holmes. My actual name is William Watkins, but I thought it better to drop the W from my surname,” he admitted.

“And why would that be?”

“Because, I have been known to do some favours in exchange for a bit of extra cash.” he looked defiant now, his chin lifted and his eyes challenging.

“And that, of course, does not sit well with somebody working for the government...” I concluded for him, returning his gaze.

“No.” William Watkins replied matter of factly, leaning back in his chair.

“Then, Mr Watkins, may I inquire, what is behind these letters?” I had gotten up and held up the original stack. It now made sense, that they appeared wrinkled. Without the use of his left hand, he might inadvertently crumple the sheet he was writing on, especially as it was such thin paper.

He looked at them, then started laughing. “He has really kept them? Now, that is funny – but it explains what he had meant, last time I've seen him. But first to answer your question, they were a joke between Charles and I. The replies were not any less rough, I can assure you. I had been threatened over an assessment of a building that needed to be pulled down, after I had found it faulty and to laugh it off, we began writing our usual demands like that. I organised him a job – he would pay me. He would do me a favour, I would reward him.”

He picked up one of the letters, flattened it on his knees and his eyes filled with tears. 

“Mr Holmes, I have told you only half the truth till now, I am afraid,” he announced, with the air of a man, willing to come clean and do what was necessary to find his best friends murderer. “Yes, Charley had been very ill, but truth be told, Charles would not have left for England, had the ground not started to be too hot for us, so to speak. He and I had built quite a nice business on the side and we have lived well because of it. And you must understand, that that was outside the obvious favouritism. It was not exactly legal, but we managed to dodge the law for quite a while until we made a mistake. Due to my position, I was able to warn him and he escaped to England and away from the grasp of jurisdiction. As it had been my initial idea, I took the responsibility and so, to distract the investigators, I travelled a bit and managed to shake them off eventually. I think it must have been in Egypt, that they gave up. You must know, I, as an architectural engineer, could not resist seeing the pyramids.”

“I presume that is also, why you came to me and did not go to the police?” I asked, rhetorically.

“Yes, for an official, the statutory limitation is twice the amount as for a private person, when it comes to corruption. I am still liable in the eyes of the law. Going to the police would have brought me into prison, no doubt. All they had to do, was look into our past and I would have been done in.”

“You spoke of a letter from Thompson, you have received last night?” I finally steered back to the beginning of the conversation.

“Yes, here it is.” he pulled it out from his inner pocket and handed it to me.

Dear Bill, you old codger,  
as I have told you, I fear for my life and when you hold this in your hands, my fears will have become reality. I was too proud, I should have asked for help. But alas, I was too proud. I could not go to the police, for fear of endangering you, and I hesitated to go to that detective – Sherlock Holmes – for fear he would laugh at me. If you receive this, I beg you, seek his help. I need my family to be safe, especially my little girl, the apple of her father's eye. It is the last thing I can do to protect them.   
I implore you, have him find the villain.   
Love, your brother  
Charles

“Here is a note he showed me when he visited me last. - That was on Wednesday. That was also, when he told me, that he would visit the theatre.” again he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper with an already familiar handwriting on it. The contents let my blood curdle. The meaning of the message could not be more clear.

You, Sir, are most unreasonable in your insistence not to pay me. Your little note was very touching, begging for your daughter's life. If you had been less defiant, I would have, perhaps, given you the promise, to leave her unharmed, but as it is, you were most disobliging. But I will make it easier for you to bear, by first killing you and then rejoin you with your little princess, shortly after. There, is that not kindness itself?

“Do you know, whether he has spoken to his wife about this?”

“To my knowledge, he has not, he did not want to upset her.”

Thinking about this for the duration of another pipe, I suddenly jumped up from my chair, leaving the man opposite of me startled. 

“Come, Mr Atkins, we'll need to leave, before it is too late.”


	20. Murder at the Matinée - Part 10

Murder at the matinée – Part 10

Sherlock:

I hastily scribbled a note to be sent to Lestrade, while Atkins put on his coat, still looking confused. Taking the revolver from my desk drawer, I slipped it into my pocket, prepared for the worst and then ushered Atkins out of the room. Bidding my visitor good-bye I hailed a cab and gave Watson's address. I was glad to find him at home and willing to join me and within minutes of appearing on his doorstep, we were off towards Havillier House.

“Say, Holmes, what is going on?” my friend asked, looking eager and curious at the same time. Of course, we had not seen each other for several days.

“I went to a matinée on Friday, together with Harriet and the Fraser's – little Lou's parents – were a man was murdered during the first half of the concert.” 

“In the middle of the theatre?” Watson asked incredulously.

“So to speak.” I agreed. “His relatives called for a doctor and Harriet went to help him, only to find him dead and almost decapitated.”

“Decapitated?!” he now cried out in disbelief. 

“Yes. He had a wire saw wrapped around his neck. But he was already dead when that was done. He died of an air embolism.” I could see, that Watson wanted to reply, that this was not necessarily deadly, but I anticipated him, by answering the unasked question. “He had a predisposition and the air was not injected into his arm, but into his carotid artery, so that it caused a stroke that killed him. The man had also been under the influence of Laudanum, as he had suffered a head wound about twenty years back, that gave him severe headaches. He must have been in quite a daze at the time.”

“But Holmes, how can a man be killed amongst so many other people without anybody hearing anything?”

As we dashed towards our destination I explained it further.

“That is atrocious! And you are certain?”

“Yes, I am certain. I only hope we are not too late to save his wife, daughter and possibly even his daughter in law.”

We arrived in Putney almost at the same time as the inspector. Jumping out of the Hansom, Lestrade appeared fairly annoyed at having been disturbed on a Sunday afternoon. 

“Holmes, Doctor Watson, I hope you did not mean what you said in your telegram.” his nerves were on tenterhooks, as he shook our hands.

“I meant every word of it, Lestrade. Have you any back up?” I queried, feeling not any less tense.

“Backup is on the way. They should be here any minute.”

“Good, then let us wait.” 

Hastily smoking a cigarette, I walked up and down, suppressing the urge to dash in straight away. But it would not do, we would need to block the back entrances as well and a house like this was likely to have at least two sets of doors leading into the garden behind. 

It was but a few moments, as Inspector Lestrade had assured us, but the minutes seemed to stretch endlessly. With astonishing efficiency, the inspector gave his instructions and then called at the door. The same maid opened, that had let in Harriet and myself the afternoon before. 

“Is your mistress in?” I asked. The girl nodded, looking wide-eyed and scared.

“And Mr Thompson?” again she nodded. 

“What is this about?” the young man's voice sounded from the recesses, and pushing the trembling maid aside he appeared at the door himself. “Mr Holmes? Inspector?”

“Your father's murder,” I answered coolly. “What else would this be about?”

“Have you found the murderer already?” Charley Thompson asked, a hint of mocking in his voice.

Taking a step forward, I quickly got hold of his arm and twisting it behind his back answered nonchalantly: “Yes, I have.”

For a moment he was so perplexed, that he just stood there, but then he began fighting like a lion.

“You are an imbecile, Holmes!” he cried out, kicking and writhing. “This man is completely mad, inspector.”

“Sorry, sir, but as much as I agree, there is, after all, method in his madness,” Lestrade replied wryly while putting handcuffs on the raging man that was beginning to slip from my grasp. 

Leaving Lestrade to deal with the captive, I grabbed the terrified maid by the hand and beckoned her to bring me to her mistress, Watson hard on our heels.

Relief washed over me, when I found her in a little upstairs boudoir, toddler in her arms, unharmed, though sad. She had obviously just been crying. 

“I beg your pardon, Mrs Thompson, but I needed to ascertain that you are all right and your daughter, too.”

“Who are you, sir?” she asked, making me think for a split second, that she might have been drugged not to remember me, but then it dawned on me, that she simply wanted to know my name as we had never been introduced.

“My name, madam, is Sherlock Holmes.”

“You are? That is quite bitter, you know?” she smiled sadly, patting her daughter's wispy blond curls, all the while slightly and almost imperceptibly turning the left side of her face towards me, almost as if she wanted to avoid my eyes, had it not been for the fact, that she most keenly glanced at me. “The very last time we ever spoke to one another, was about him not going to seek your help. We quarrelled quite badly, even at the theatre. But he would not listen. And all the while you have been so close.”

“Yes, I sat across from you,” I said quietly.

“Will you find his killer?”

“I already have,” I replied quietly, smiling at the little girl, who stared at me with unabashed curiosity. “That is, why I am here.”

“Who? I need to know.”

“Your stepson, Mrs Thompson.”

xxx

“Holmes, how was it possible that no-one in the box realised what was going on?” Watson queried when we drove towards Brixton.

“I dare say, the young Mrs Thompson did realise, and yet she did not,” I answered evasively, nervously playing with my wedding band.

“How is that possible?” Lestrade wanted to know, looking incredulous.

“Would you think, someone is killed in the middle of a theatre? Presumably not. She might have assumed, that her father in law was unwell, which he often was, and that her husband took care of him – which would be a natural conclusion to draw.” I reasoned.

“And the widow?” the good doctor again dug deeper.

“I happened to observe just now, that she is almost deaf on her right ear, it is almost imperceptible, but a fact nonetheless. I did not realise this on Friday, as I have not been talking to her then. Mrs Thompson sat in the front row to the left of her husband, who, after their quarrel, sat in the back row, it would have been hard for her, to hear anything of what was going on, especially with the music playing.”

“And that wire thing?”

“A ruse. Thompson wanted to make it appear as if the murder had been committed by someone his father had upset in his line work. And I have to admit, I took the bait. There seemed to have been many, who did envy his success, but that is only normal when a man is as successful in his field as Thompson was,” adding in my mind, that had it not been for the visit Atkins had paid me, I would have spent quite some time, to search in that direction.

“What about the blood on the door?” 

“Well, that is where I went wrong, Lestrade. I thought it indicated, that someone from outside had entered the box and then had left. As it is, I presume, that Thompson might have realised he had soiled his hands lightly with his father's blood and went to wash them, as I am sure that there was no blood on his hands, when I first met him. And perhaps he also wanted to get rid of the syringe he used to kill his father with. You remember, Lestrade, that Harriet and Doctor Bell were agreeing, that the amount of air must have been quite large, so I am almost sure, the syringe was of the kind a veterinarian uses to treat cattle. - But that is only an assumption. Still, it might be a good idea, to search the Lyceum's lavatories.”

When we at long last reached Charles Thompson's Brixton address, we found a rather humble terraced house in a comfortable neighbourhood. With the park only down the road and the small but neat front gardens, it looked a lot cosier than the more imposing Havillier House.

There was no light from within, despite the early November evening. Knocking, there was no answer and so, breaking down the front door, we entered hesitantly. There was the distinct smell of gas pervading the house, making us cautious. The slightest spark would ignite the air in an explosion. Holding our breaths, we opened all windows to create a draught before we proceeded to close all gas jets, carefully climbing up the stairs in the fear for stepping onto a trap. But Thompson had either not been this devious or this clever. 

We reached the upstairs safely and once more opened the windows, while breathing as little as was possible, trying to avoid fumes. The clock in the hallway ticked ominously and in the recesses, where the bathroom must be, a water tap was dripping in a steady rhythm. 

There, in the front bedroom the young Mrs. Thompson lay, spread out on the bed in her nightdress, one arm lifted above her head, the other dangling over the side of the bed, while the legs were spread in an almost titillating manner, had not the state of the blanket, which she must have kicked aside, showed that she had fought violently against her attacker. The crumpled pillow next to her was doubtless the weapon she had been murdered with. She almost appeared as if she was sleeping, had it not been for the complete lack of movement, that, even in sleep, distinguished the living from the dead.

xxx

“And you are sure, it is convenient, Holmes?” Watson asked anxiously, as we drove towards Chiswick.

“Yes. Of course, it is convenient, old friend. And besides, I need some backup,” I laughed, taking out my watch, glancing at it consciously. “I told Harriet I would be back before dinner...”

“Then it is lucky you did not specify the exact day,” my friend chuckled.

After our discovery, it had taken another two and a half hours, till we finally had been on our way and by now it was well past our usual dinner time. But I could not leave without knowing the motive of this patricide, as that had been the only part that still had been a mystery to me by the time we had joined the prisoner for his interrogation.

Watson glanced up at me, before grinning even more widely.

“She has got you trained quite well, already,” he mocked. Something I well deserved in all likeliness, thinking about how often I had sported with him when he had gotten married.

“I am just wise enough to surrender, where I cannot possibly win,” I joked back.

“Good man!” he laughed.

“And besides, I would appreciate it, if you could take a look at Harriet. She has been unwell for a while and I start to get worried,” I admitted, turning serious.

He looked at me weirdly. “Unwell? Why what is wrong with her?”

I explained, telling him that she had a break down the night before and was actually bodily sick. 

“You know, it must have been a bit much,” I concluded. “She is strong, but that made it only worse, I suppose, postponing the natural reaction and leading to these physical and mental effects.” 

Biting my lip, I refrained to tell him about my discovery this morning. I still was unable to voice my fears and fidgeting with my wedding ring, I tried to avoid my friends gaze.

“Is there something else?” Watson enquired softly, picking up on my obvious uneasiness.

“Perhaps. I cannot tell. Harriet said it is nothing to worry about, but she was bleeding this morning.”

“Bleeding? I am afraid you will have to specify, Holmes.”

“I think she might have had a miscarriage. It was quite a bit of blood,” I voiced my worries. 

The doctor gaped at me for a short moment, letting sink in what I had just said. 

“But you said she was not worried or anxious…?” he eventually carried on.

“No.”

“Holmes, could it not simply be, your wife is suffering her monthly bleed.”

“Monthly bleed?”

“Yes. For a woman, it is perfectly normal. Trust your wife on this one. It just shows she is a healthy woman of childbearing age,” he assured me before asking hesitantly, “Holmes, have you never known this?” 

“I might have at some point, I don't know. But you know my maxim about useless knowledge. - This was a kind of knowledge I had no use for. - Until now,” I replied, relieved and embarrassed at the same time. “And there is nothing that can be done about it?”

“There is, of course, one thing you could do…,” the smirk on his face was back. “I strongly recommend reading your wife's book, old fellow. It might give you an interesting insight into the workings of the female body. It taught me a thing or two. Or alternatively, ask the authoress herself.” 

The insinuation was clear. And thinking about it, I vowed to myself to do just that. As soon as Harriet was better, I vowed I would sit down with her and ask her. Hopefully without getting too flustered. Beetroot-red never suited me very well.

xxx

When we reached home, we found Harriet calmly sitting on the sofa, knitting. She looked a lot better than in the morning, the rest seemingly doing her a world of good. Though she must have spent quite some time crying still, as her eyes were slightly red-rimmed. When Harriet became aware of us, she smiled, put aside her needlework and welcomed us warmly, and with no hint of reproach.

“It is nice to see you, Doctor Watson. I will just put the roast beef back on and take care of the potatoes. I think dinner should be ready in half an hour.”

When I looked at her flabbergasted, she added teasingly: “Did you really think I would rely on your word, that you would return before dinner? With you, one never knows what happens next and I was proven right.”

“You sound as if you have spoken to Mrs Hudson.”

“I have.” was her dry reply. “She had sent a telegram this morning. It arrived shortly after you have left and I replied, asking her, to tell me, when you would leave Baker Street. She did so, informing me, that you were out and about, but not on your way home. So, I assumed, you must have made some progress and prepared everything as far as it would take but a short time to finish the roast.”

xxx

Harriet:

“So it was the son?” I asked, shocked, as we had sat down for dinner. 

Remembering that I had actually comforted the murderer was unsettling, he had appeared so honestly shocked – but then again, he could have been shocked at himself for having gone through with his deed, killing his father. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, cutting the beef and serving each of us a generous slice.

“And do you know why?” I carried on, helping myself to some beans.

“Yes, he had accumulated a lot of debts and was not very successful in his business. He needed money. He had found the old letters, that seemed to threaten his father and decided to take it up a notch and blackmail him, threatening to do harm to his fathers family.”

“That is disgusting! What kind of business did he have?”

“He dealt with artworks. Importing objects from all over the empire. Masks, carvings, shrunken heads.”

“I would not call a shrunken head a piece of art...” Doctor Watson interjected, making me smirk, as the same thought had crossed my mind.

“That is the point. Most of what he sold, were knock-offs anyway. Industrially produced and cheap, but sold for good money. He seemed to have ruined his reputation quite quickly and his father needed to vouch for him and his credibility. He could have changed his ways then, but decided, that he preferred the easy way out. Carrying on with his ways, his name quickly became tainted beyond repair and his father lost a great deal of money, but other than the son, he was able to afford it. At any rate, Thompson senior refused to help him out again, and the son ended up in the fangs of some shylock and, as he could not pay up, was fearing for his life.”

“It still is pathetic,” I cried out, stabbing a piece of beef with a vengeance. “He was given a second chance and he did not take it and then he was too much of a coward to deal with it like a man.”

“It often is. Actually more often than not,” Sherlock mused, taking my hand, while Tom, who had sat there quietly enjoying his meal seemed to ponder on something. 

“But how did you know it was the son?” Watson carried on.

“When meeting Atkins, the man I had seen at the Lyceum and who till then I had considered a possible suspect, I knew I could rule him out. He could not have possibly been the murderer. At least not in person.”

“Why not?”

“That, Watson is very simple – he was missing his right hand. There was no way, he could have used the wire saw and he could also not have left the bloody handprint. It would not have made sense. He needed to turn the doorknob and he could have only done so with his actual hand, yet the print, smeared as it was, showed some of the typical lines of a human hand. It could not have been him.” Sherlock elaborated. “So, I was left with a person, who must have known about the initial letters, the original ones from W. W., otherwise he could not have imitated them and this got me thinking, who might have had access to them. A servant? Perhaps, but how would he profit from Thompson’s death? Unless it was some kind of revenge he was after. But the later letters indicated it was money, that was the driving force behind this crime and that was, when I knew, it must have been the son. He had the knowledge, the opportunity, in retrospective it is even likely he knew about his stepmother's handicap, he had power over his wife and he would benefit from his father's death. All that was lacking, was a distinct motive. But I was sure once we had him, this would also be solved. And it did.”

“So young Thompson’s wife needed to die because she has figured him out?”

“Yes.”

With that, he glanced over at Tom, who still seemed to ponder.

“What is it, Tom?” Sherlock finally asked, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.

“What is a shrunken head, sir?”


	21. Pecunia non olet - Part 1

Pecunia non olet – Part 1

Sherlock:  
I had been successful in convincing my wife, that another day or two of rest would be nothing but beneficial for her and so, with her propped up on the sofa in her study on one side and me on the other, sharing one blanket, each of us spent the morning reading a book. Outside the rain was pouring down and the wind was howling in the chimney making it a perfect arrangement. Had I first been tempted to follow up on Watson’s advice, I had ended up reading Hardy instead, while Harriet read ‘The heavenly twins’.

Not sure, whether my choice of book annoyed me because of its accurate depiction of our society or not, I put it aside after the first five chapters realising, that my wife had fallen asleep again. Gently I caressed her lower thigh and feet, that were sprawled across my lap, forgetting that she was quite ticklish. With a jerk she was awake again, almost kicking me in a rather delicate part of male anatomy. 

“Dear me, you have scared me!” she exclaimed and then began laughing at my sheepish face. 

“I did not mean to startle you,” I apologised and then listened intently. “Do you hear footsteps?” 

“Yes,” she answered, looking unconcerned. “I presume it’s Tom...”

“No, I have sent him over to Baker Street to fetch me, when I am needed there. So if he has returned, he would call for me, but whoever this is, seems to be wandering about.”

I glanced insinuatingly at the ceiling as the footsteps were now sounding from above us. A moment later they descended the stairs again and approached the door to Harriet’s study, which momentarily was flung open to reveal a surprised looking girl of at most twenty, carrying a feather duster.

“I…-I am sorry.” she stammered, looking from Harriet to me and back, slightly frowning at our comfortable arrangement on the settee. 

“Oh, don’t worry, Martha.” my wife smiled, getting up. “I have not expected you back today at all. Did you send a note?”

“Yes, I charged Ned to bring it to the post office, but knowing him, he presumably has forgotten all about it.” 

“Who is Ned?” I enquired, while the girl tried her best to keep her composure.

“My younger brother, Mr Holmes.” she curtsied. “I am sorry, Mrs Holmes, I did not think you would be at home or else I would have knocked.”

I gawked at her in astonishment before remembering, that she was the daughter of one of Sir Cedric’s tenants.

Harriet started to chuckle, reaching out her hand to greet the maid properly: “I see you have spoken to my mother. How are you, Martha? You do look well, considering.” 

“Yes, I have. And I am well, thank you. I am sorry I could not return any sooner, but...”

“Never mind, I know. “

“Thank you.” was the grateful and quiet reply.

At this moment, the doorbell rang and with a small curtsey Martha hurried down the stairs. 

“I wonder who that might be?” I muttered exasperated, getting up from the sofa likewise and stepping towards the window I looked outside and could make out a small boy wearing a grey coat and brown corduroy cap and a man wearing a large tan coloured mackintosh and a bowler hat. The boy I knew was Tom and the man, judging by his stature and the way he carried himself looked suspiciously like Lestrade.

A moment later my suspicions were confirmed and we were informed that indeed Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard would like to talk to me. 

“I think we might want to sit in the back sitting room. It is well heated and we have ready access to our teapot.” Harriet suggested, meaning the little parlour towards the back that was always a little dark, but so cosy that I knew it to be her favourite room to sit in. A room that had the irresistible charm of a country cottage. Whenever we had no guests, that was where we ate and where my wife did her sewing.

The inspector was dripping wet and he looked apologetically at us as did Tom.

“I am sorry, sir,” the boy started. “I know, I was supposed to fetch you, but the inspector said he would be all right coming with me as he was drenched already anyway and it would be of little matter if he were drenched a bit more...”

“Don’t worry, Tom, Inspector Lestrade is all right to bring or send here, as would be Inspector Hopkins,” I assured him. Intending to normally spend the day in my old rooms, and coming back home from work in the evening, as any other man, if not a case demanded otherwise. - Unless of course, Harriet decided to stay at Baker Street, too, as it was closer to Lisson Grove and consequently Saint Anne’s. And yet, once we had a family, this would be the better choice of housing at any rate, and I decidedly wanted for it to stay crime free if I could possibly help it. 

xxx

The inspector gratefully sat down and took the mug of steaming hot tea from my wife, who, to my dismay, looked curiously at the official. This must be, how Watson must have felt, whenever he had told me I should rest or else I would have a complete breakdown. Now it was me, who was sitting next to Harriet and was likely just as irked by her incapability to relax when there was a mystery to solve than my friend must have been with me. 

“You said the other day, that I could ask for your assistance in case I need help with finding the jewels Kershaw stole.”

“Yes, I did and I will, of course,” I answered, lighting my pipe and leaning back in my chair. 

I had still been abroad myself, when the robbery happened but had already stayed at Montpellier, where I had little trouble of receiving the latest news and was not solely dependent on my brother for information. Thinking about it, it made me wonder, why it was, that the heir had taken almost a year to arrive in England to make his claims. 

“Oh, the man arrived from Argentina about seven months ago, went through all the legal matters, only to find, that the jewels are still missing and with much dismay he contacted the superintendent and after Belcher had not succeeded and Everett Trenton – that is the heir – made such a fuss, that I was assigned the case last week, only to seem to fail just as miserably as Inspector Belcher has.”

“Then could you give me all the details to the actual robbery?” I asked the man, who, to my surprise pulled out a thin stack of narrowly written papers and handed them over to me.

“This is a copy of all the notes I have made from the original files, as well as what I have found out to date and what has not been added to them,” he answered, getting up to stand in front of the small stove that heated the room more sufficiently than any fireplace would have done.

“Thank you. But you know me, Lestrade, I would actually like to hear it from your lips - or in this case preferably from Belcher’s, as he was the first to investigate and the one who got hold of Kershaw. Notes usually do not repeat impressions and yet, they might be essential to solving the crime. - Or, as in this case, the mystery of the missing Trenton jewels, that have been stolen by Kershaw and that despite being arrested about six hours after the murder of Gilad Trenton and the theft of his victim's valuables was still able to let them disappear. - What for example did he say at his trial? I am sure he must have been questioned about the whereabouts of his booty.”

“Yes, as far as I know, he was, but he said he never got hold of the valuables and does not know where they might be found.”

“As I understand it, Trenton was quite famous for his collection of stones and fine jewellery,” I dug deeper, while Harriet refilled our tea cups. “How so?”

“Yes, he was. He had made a considerable bit of money trading in precious stones and gold and was in the habit of once a year for Christmas to buy a piece for his wife’s collection. He made a point of having the pieces done by young and promising goldsmiths, who usually worked for little money, but they were permitted to use the piece done for him as an advertisement, showing it for three months at their studios, before Trenton would pick them up and give it to his beloved. Emily Trenton died three years ago and since then up to his death, the man had led a very secluded life, hardly ever venturing out into society, let alone near a jewellers shop.”

“And so the myth was born...” Harriet concluded, having followed the conversation quietly, sitting in her favourite chair.

“Yes, so the myth was born. And then, following the call of wealth and gold, Jimmy Kershaw, broke into the house in the wee hours of the morning, to rob Trenton of his valuables, was caught by him, stabbed him to death and then ransacked the house. Later that morning, the woman, who cleaned the house, came in, found everything in disarray and Trenton in his own blood, dying and raised the alarm. The man was, as you said,” he looked pointedly at me, “arrested little more than six hours after the alarm was raised and put on trial, was convicted and consequently hung. With that, the case was closed for us, with the exception of the missing jewellery of course – but as long as no-one claimed them, this was not a massive problem.”

“It only became one, when Everett Trenton arrived on the scene.” once more my wife summarised, showing she had paid at least as much attention to the tale thus far as I had done. Lestrade nodded, drinking his tea contemplatively while I re-stuffed my pipe and lit it again.

“This Everett Trenton, what relation is he to the late Gilad Trenton?” I enquired after a while in which none of us had spoken.

“A cousin twice removed if I understand it correctly.”

“Was he mentioned in the will?”

“No, his wife was to be his heiress, she was some years his junior and a famed beauty in her youth. Well, she would have been the heiress, had she not pre-deceased him, but Trenton never got around to alter the will. So the inheritance went to the closest living relation – which appears to be this Everett.”

“I presume the heir is now living in the house where all of this happened?” I asked, glancing over the notes the inspector had given me.

“Yes, he does, at least for the moment. As soon as the embellishments are found, he plans to return to South America where he seems to own some land.” Lestrade at long last looked as if he began to be warm and comfortable in his damp clothing.

“So, considering he is extremely interested in getting hold of this treasure, I dare say he would not mind me having a look around. - While you my dear, take a nice rest.” Harriet did look none too pleased with this comment, and was about to contradict me, when I continued, holding up the notes: “And while lounging on the sofa, you could actually go through this and perhaps you might find a clue that has as yet escaped the inspector.”

She did not look too happy still when she took the papers from me, but as she appeared so much paler than usual I would not risk another breakdown and would stay firm, even if it meant we would have our first quarrel. After all, the purpose of her staying at home had been to rest and to recover her spirits, that I was sure were the cause of her overwrought reactions and the, as she had confessed, almost permanent feeling of sickness. But the expected contradiction never came, instead, a single tear flowed down her cheek and what I had been so eager to prevent washed over her again. 

With forced calm, she excused herself and pecking me on the mouth with a small smile, left us standing in her little cosy parlour, both of us concerned about her reaction.

“Is she all right?” Lestrade eventually asked, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“No,” I answered quietly. “She, at last, has suffered a break down two nights ago. I presume Hopkins has told you, what happened to her in Winchester?”

The man nodded.

“I wonder if I should write to her mother,” I admitted. “Perhaps she can cheer her up.”

“Holmes, if I may say so, your wife looks happy enough with you. Give her some time, she’ll be all right. You know how it is yourself, to have a mental break down. I am of course no doctor, but what do you expect after two days?”

As pragmatic as his advice was, it was also sensible and sound. Shrugging my shoulders I went in search for Martha, gave her instructions to keep an eye on her mistress, then told Tom where I went and to fetch me if something was the matter with Harriet. At last, I went upstairs to kiss my wife good-bye and then left together with the official detective.


	22. Pecunia non olet - Part 2

Pecunia non olet – Part 2

 

Harriet:  
Slumping down on the sofa I desperately fought the unwelcome onslaught of tears and was glad that I could keep them at bay just long enough for Sherlock to say good-bye and kiss me properly. He had not closed the door when I could not hold them back any longer.

It was not that I did not want Sherlock to leave, I did not mind him going and helping the inspector. It was not even the fact, that he had told me to stay at home and rest – it was sensible and I knew it and in his stead would have insisted on it as well. So what was it? I did not know. 

Exhausted after my weeping, but a lot calmer, I went over to my dressing room, changed into a nightshirt once more and slipped into bed. - My husband's side of the bed. The pillow smelled of him and gave me a pleasant feeling of comfort and security. Not long and I drifted off and fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

When I woke up about an hour later, the world seemed a whole lot brighter and with much enthusiasm, I slipped into Sherlock’s dressing gown and went to read through the notes, the inspector had left us. But not before asking Martha to bring me a pot of tea and some cream biscuits. I was famished and craved something sweet.

With a mug of tea and the plate of biscuits, I sat down cross-legged on my chair, to keep my feet off the draughty floor and began reading. It was quite fortunate, that the inspector’s handwriting was less daunting than my husband's and less scrawly compared to my own and turned out to be quite easy to read, despite its minuteness.

Trenton had lived in Hampstead, not far actually from where the Fraser’s lived. I knew the area fairly well and could picture the noble villa’s and prestigious semi-detached houses, like the one Anne lived in, without any difficulty. From the notes, I assumed, that Gilad Trenton had lived in a larger abode standing in its own grounds, which would account for the fact, that no-one had heard any cries for help or the robber rummaging through the place in search of the valuables. 

Kershaw had been adamant, that he had found nothing of any consequence and had left with little more than a few pounds, that he had found in one of the desk drawers of his victim. The old man had not died immediately, but only shortly after his charwoman had found him, being already unconscious at the time. Had she been earlier or the attack been later, there was little doubt, that Trenton would have survived. The injury was not deadly in itself, it had been the loss of blood, that had killed him in the end.

It made me quite sad to think, that this old man, Gilad Trenton had been in his mid-seventies, had died such a slow death and all on his own. Once more tears threatened to fall and once more I got fairly annoyed at myself for being so emotional. Something I did not like in others and certainly not in myself. And yet, no matter how much I tried to pull myself together, I could not control my feelings at all. As a doctor I knew this to be fairly normal after such a breakdown, I knew even men behaved like crying ninnies at such a time, but I was desperate to be back to my old self. And so, taking a deep breath, I swallowed the tears and carried on, focussing hard on the facts and little else. 

It was fortunate, that the rest of the document was a mere description of the place and a description of the missing jewellery. And to actively engage my mind, I tried to draw a plan from what I read and was surprised to find, that I was quite able to reconstruct a floor plan of the three-story house. It was not very neat and did not show any furniture, windows or fireplaces, but it was a start. Something to go on. I identified several rooms and marked the one, where Kershaw seemingly had entered, which was given as the scullery, and the one, where the late master of the house had been found, which had been the dining room. I also noted, that dining room and kitchen, that was adjacent to the scullery, were connected by a dumb waiter.

Without the reports of my husband, this would be as far as I could possibly get in regards to the house. Reading through the description of the gems, I was stunned. They must have been extremely precious and outstanding. But if they were as outstanding as the report suggested, then they would be hard to conceal, hard to sell and impossible for a potential buyer to wear or have worn - unless of course, he would live in another country. It also was a surprise to find, that Trenton had not bothered to insure items as valuable as the ones he had kept in his house. He had even cancelled a previously existing insurance after his wife’s death and the worth of the insurance sum took me by surprise as it came close to forty thousand Pounds Sterling! No wonder Everett Trenton wanted to have the items restored to him. They would be worth more than the property and what the bequeather had left on his bank account. 

At last, I took out my map of London, found first to my dismay and then to my amusement, that Sherlock had already drawn on it. Sighing I erased the pencil marks and then scribbled on the plan myself, marking the place of the crime and the place, where Kershaw had been caught. - Another place I knew all too well. He had been found at Lisson Grove two streets down from Saint Anne’s. It seemed London was a small place after all. Looking at the distance between Hampstead and ‘The Wheat-sheaf’, I wondered, why would he go there of all places? The man did not have a permanent address, so most likely he rented his bed there every night, in one of the boarding houses. If he could afford it. There was one such facility two houses down from the said inn. 

xxx

It was already getting dark when I heard Sherlock return. Descending the steps I smiled at him and helping him out of his overcoat I suggested a hot bath.

“That my love, would be absolutely wonderful. I am frozen stiff. It has really gotten cold these past few days.” he rubbed his hands together to warm them. “But for the moment a cup of tea would suffice.” 

“Then I can send Tom upstairs in the meantime and have the bath prepared and you can tell me all about your adventures.” 

“You seem to feel better.” he smiled, pulling me close to kiss me. “And are as curious as ever.” 

“Did you think I would be any less curious?”

“No. My dressing gown suits you, by the way. But I doubt I will manage to squeeze myself into your waisted one with equal grace.”

“No, and I doubt dusky pink is your colour.” I laughed at the image turning up in my mind.

“Probably not...” he replied dryly. 

“So, what did you find out, my dear?” I asked him eagerly, intrigued by what I had read so far and keen to have my findings confirmed.

“That it was very wet weather out there.” he deadpanned, grinning. “It is good to see you are feeling better, Harriet.”

“The rest did me a world of good, I have to admit.”

“I told you so.”

“And are you not loving it?” I teased, raising an eyebrow in mock challenge.

“Very much so. Almost as much as I love you.” Once more he pulled me close to kiss me.

“I love you, too.” I smiled, ruffling his hair, much to his chagrin. “And now for a cup of tea.”

We pushed two chairs towards the stove in the sitting room, each a mug in our hands and sat down in front of the blazing heat emanating from there, I still in my nightshirt and his dressing gown and he now in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, with his hair ruffled and a contended smile on his face. For a while, he said nothing and I knew he was thinking over the information he had gathered.

Eventually, he spoke: “Everett Trenton is a tempestuous man, Harriet. A man of action, but not necessarily of education, there is a natural cunning about him though. He was as expected very eager to have me look into the matter, but oddly enough not very keen on letting me into the house.”

Taking a sip of tea he smiled slyly before continuing: “Admittedly, I would have hesitated to let anybody into my house, too, if I had my mistress lounging scantily dressed only with a pink feather boa on my dinner table.”

“On the dinner table? Wearing only a boa?” I almost choked laughing at the image. “You surely cannot be serious!”

“No, I am not serious. But it is so good seeing you laugh again.” he grinned, before turning serious again. “But he had his mistress in the house and she was not very subtle in her departure through the back door.”

“Is he married? I could not determine that from the notes.”

“He is not married, but there seems to be an engagement to an heiress, from what Lestrade and I have gathered. A Miss Hannigan.”

The name rang a distant bell.

“Not Miranda Hannigan, surely?” I cried out.

Sherlock looked surprised. “You know her?”

“No – well, not really. I have met her though. She is a rather, let us say ‘exceptional’ person.” 

“In what sense?” 

“Politely put, or preferably honest?”

He raised his eyebrows in exasperated expectancy.

“I take it, you prefer me to be honest. - Well, let me put it this way, she is the most hapless creature I have ever come across. Miss Hannigan volunteered at Saint Anne’s. - I might be deceived there, but I think me to be a rather patient person...”

“You are married to me, you have to be a patient creature.” came his deadpan reply.

“Well, thank you. But I have lost it with her after not even two hours and have sent her home again.”

“What did she do?” my husband was now sitting on the edge of his chair, looking bemused.

“I asked her to dish up the food and she threw out the broth that was supposed to go with the bread for the weaker patients and gave them the bones instead. And mind, we are not speaking of decent marrowbones here, but of whatever the butcher chose to give us for charity.”

Sherlock Holmes stared at me aghast, the corners of his mouth twitching. At the time I had not found it funny at all, needing to feed my patients, but more than a year later the humorous side had taken over.

“Anyway, after this disaster, I requested something simpler from her and asked her to empty out the bedpans, which she did without any hesitation, I have to give her that. She may be simple, but she is eager in all she does – and that proved to be the problem.”

“Do I really want to know what she did?”

“Presumably not,” I concluded, leaning back in my chair, shaking my head slightly.

“Well?”

“You know Saint Anne’s is not in one of the parts of town that has a decent sewer system and fresh water supply. But, we are quite lucky to actually have two taps in the hospital itself and two flushing toilets at the back, across the yard. But, so the patients don’t need to go outside, we have several night commodes - and Miss Hannigan managed to empty all the bedpans into one of them, having it overflow...”

“That really is extremely...” he did not finish the sentence but instead pulled a face.

“Yes, but that was not all.”

“If that was not enough for you to send her back home, you are even more of a saint than I have taken you for. Well, if our children are going to be anything like I used to be as a lad, that is quite fortunate...” Sherlock mused, stuffing his pipe, his eyes sparkling. “So, what did she do next?”

“Miss Hannigan put a bed on fire by spilling the embers to light the stoves from their bucket. It was lucky, that the poor girl occupying the bed had the sense to use her blanket to smother the flames before the whole incident turned into a catastrophe.”

“Oh dear!”

“After that, I feared for the safety of the people put under my care and decided, that it was probably safer to send her home, with the promise of informing her, when we would need her help. I could not bring it over me to slight her and tell her, I would rather be short staffed than have her around again.” I finished my report, dryly. 

By now my husband was laughing out loud and I with him. It did not take long for us, however, to calm down again and while still chuckling Sherlock continued: “So, Miss Hannigan is not a very practical person from what I have gathered. Is she pretty? I only saw her from the back.”

“She is not unsightly. It is hard to describe her actually. She is rather small and a bit stout but has a very pleasant face with large blue eyes – her most prominent feature. Her hair is slightly darker than my own and she usually wears it in a plain bun. She is not vain and eager to lend a hand. I do like her and I felt truly sorry to have had to put her down.”

“How old would you say she is?”

“In her early thirties, if I remember it correctly.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair once more, deep in thought, tapping absent-mindedly against his lips with his extinct pipe.

It was only when Tom informed us, that the bath was ready, that my husband moved again.


	23. Pecunia non olet - Part 3

Pecunia non olet – Part 3

Sherlock:  
It was with a heavy heart, that I left Harriet behind. Through the closed door, I could hear her sob and I was very much tempted to walk back into the room and scoop her up in my arms, holding her tightly. And yet, neither did I want to embarrass her, nor did I want for her to pull herself together again and stop crying, knowing that what she needed at this point was an unabashed weeping. Sighing I walked down the stairs and out of the house, certain that if something serious would happen I would be informed immediately either by Tom or Martha.

Lestrade and I took a hansom to first see Inspector Belcher at Scotland Yard, a man of meagre cerebral capacity for one in his position, who was usually assigned to those cases that were deemed unimportant enough to bother no-one if they were not solved. But the night of the Trenton robbery, he had been the inspector on duty for the area and had ended up with the most important case of the month of December 1893. And against all odds had arrested the murderer shortly after the crime had been committed.

With an astonishing arrogance, considering the enormous rate of his unsolved cases, usually nowhere in the vicinity of what Lestrade, Gregson or even young Hopkins worked on, let alone myself, he bid us to sit and I could clearly see that there was no love lost between the two official detectives. Their attitude towards one another was hostile at best, towards me, Belcher’s was cautious. It was clear, that he did not like me very much but he was after all intelligent enough to know that it was better to keep on the good side of me.

“So, how can I help you?” he thus asked with polite indifference and I answered him.

“But there is no mystery with the Kershaw case at all, Mr Holmes,” he answered testily. “Kershaw admitted to having killed Trenton and that was that. We have done what was to be done and have succeeded and...”

“You would not call the still missing jewels to be a mystery?” I interjected, raising an eyebrow at so much forced ignorance.

“The house is a big one and I’d wager to say it has many a hiding place. The heir will find them eventually, I am certain. Making such a fuss about them was absolutely unnecessary.” he waved his hand in indifference.

I had to hold my self back, lest he would close up like an oyster, but as always this man infuriated me far beyond my normal cool, with his most unfortunate combination of stupidity and ignorance. 

Smiling forcedly I enquired: “Did Kershaw never say, where he might have hidden his booty?”

I knew he had not, but wanted to hear it from Belcher anyway. And he said so. What impressions he had of Kershaw? – Well, he was a small-time thug who had seized the opportunity and burgled Trenton’s villa. No, as far as was known, he had no accomplice, he did not want to kill the old man, he just got scared, claiming he did not expect the man to be at home that night…- and so it went on, nothing new, no impression other than the most common one and certainly no assessment of either man or situation. 

After about half an hour I came to the conclusion, that I could have just as well have relied on the second-hand information Lestrade had provided, as on Belcher’s self-important squabble.

It was on bidding our good-bye, that the only piece of information I had not come to know yet, was said offhandedly and as a side remark.

“I wish you good luck then, in your quest.” Belcher had said in a smug tone of voice before adding in an astonishingly earnest one: “Thinking that if Trenton’s friend had not fallen ill, he would not have been home that night, even.”

“What friend?” I asked quickly before he could close the door to his office in our faces.

“A Charles Summerton. Lives in Hatfield.” 

One look at Lestrade showed me, that he had never heard of the man either.

xxx

Again we took a cab, to get to Trenton’s address, the rain still pouring down and the frosty wind making a man feel really uncomfortable. Neither of us spoke much. What there was to know, we had already established and the inspector knew, that I would refuse to hypothesize without any sufficient data. We, of course, knew who had burgled the house and who had killed Gilad Trenton, but there our knowledge ended. Kershaw, to his last, had been adamant, that he had not taken the jewellery, even as he was faced with the gallows. 

The Trenton Villa was a large square building, modernised recently, but clearly of Georgian origin. From the layout it was clear, that originally the main living area had been on the first floor, admitting more sunlight into the house than the ground level, that had consequently housed the family rooms. Many nooks and crannies bore testimony to the relocation of walls and wall portions and what once had been a clear and elegant layout, was now an architectural hubbub and as such perfect for the construction of secret hiding places. And as it was at this point, that I realised, Belcher had a point in saying that the jewels were most likely hidden inside the building. It certainly was not unlikely.

The door was opened by a pretty young maid with a slightly dishevelled appearance about her and upon laying her eyes on my companion, her practised smile faltered for a moment before it widened, her face looking hopeful.

“Inspector?”

“I am here to speak to Mr Trenton,” Lestrade stated, ignoring the maids questioning glance towards me.

“Mr Trenton is currently very busy, Sir,” she replied quickly.

“Then we will wait.” the inspector smiled back just as sweet.

She hesitated. There spread a decided blush across her pleasant but rather vacant features and I could see how she shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“I will see what I can do.” she stammered, attempting to close the door. But I was quicker, wedging my foot between door and door frame, so she had no choice but to leave the door ajar and us hovering on the doorstep.

Ascending the stairs a moment later we could hear her knock and then open the door before receiving an answer. The faint sound of rhythmic banging and of low soft moans now brought colour to our cheeks. It stopped abruptly however and indistinguishable fragments of a low conversation reached our red ears.

“Dear me! Busy indeed...” Lestrade muttered under his breath.

When the maid appeared again, looking more dishevelled than before, I was hard-pressed to keep a straight face and wondered at her real position and purpose in the house. Trenton decidedly seemed to enjoy his inheritance, it would seem.

“Mr Trenton would be there in a moment if you would like to wait in the study.” she offered, letting us into the house finally.

xxx

Everett Trenton was an athletic man in his late twenties or early thirties, with light brown hair and an angled face. Certainly a ladies man. From the way he spoke, it was clear that had never received a first-class education, but he was no doubt an intelligent man and there was a hint of cunning about him, that caught my attention.

“Mr Holmes!” he greeted, as he stepped into the dusty and stuffy room about twenty minutes later. “I am very glad, you are looking into the matter. I cannot believe I have not thought of engaging you myself!” 

As he closed the door behind him, I could see another woman scurry past it and out the back of the house and a moment later a frilly hat hovered past the window, as the lady made her way around the building and out of the garden gate.

“I am not sure I would have taken your case,” I admitted, bowing my head politely. “I have been rather busy these past few months to go on a treasure hunt.”

“Oh yes, of course, this is nothing but a trifle for you, Mr Holmes, but you see, I am keen on returning to Argentina and it will be extremely difficult to sort out my affairs from overseas.”

“Naturally.”

Without asking he poured us all a glass of brandy and then sat down at the desk, that once must have been his cousins. I doubted that a lot had changed during the few months Everett Trenton had spent here.

“Have you property there?” I enquired, wondering, why a man, so fortunate as to inherit a rather valuable house in fairly extensive grounds and a handsome amount of money in a busy metropolis as London, was so eager to leave it again, shortly after having arrived here.

“Yes, I have extensive farmland over there, built it all myself,” he answered, unsmiling. Nothing in his behaviour suggested, he was proud of what he had accumulated in another country with the work of his own, bare hands and it had me wonder.

“Have you any other family?” I wondered.

“You mean am I married? No, I am not. From what I have read, just like yourself, I am not a marrying man.”

“I must disappoint you there, Mr Trenton, as I, despite appearances, am a family man with a wife waiting for me at home.” was my dry, half-muttered reply.

I did not know, why I had felt the urge to correct him thus, but for some reason, I did not like the idea of being anywhere close to this man's disposition. It was not his obviously lewd behaviour, that bothered me, he was unmarried, there was no reason he should answer for what he did with whom in the privacy of his own home, and yet there was something unsavoury about him that I could not fathom. Perhaps it was the disparity of what he had said and how he acted. 

My statement had taken him by surprise however and he glanced at me to ascertain, whether I had been serious or not. Shrugging his broad shoulders he began chuckling, seemingly having reached the wrong conclusion and thinking I had been joking.

“Anyway, Mr Trenton, I would like to have a look around the house. There has been suggested, that the jewels might never have left the property and I am pretty certain, Kershaw was telling the truth when he said, he had no idea, where they had ended up. It is just unfortunate, that this can mean two things – either he had never known where they were kept, or at the point, he had been asked, he did not know, where they had ended up after he had taken them.”

“I have never thought about it in this light,” Lestrade admitted. “And if he has taken them?”

“Then we will need to find his accomplice.”

xxx

Starting with the second theory, I retraced the route Kershaw must have taken around the house up to the point where he had run into Gilad Trenton and had killed him.

From the small window of the scullery, where he had entered I glanced around the various work areas. The basement seemed to have been spared the excessive overhaul that had befallen the rest of the house some thirty years ago, judging by the pattern of the expensive wallpaper. With the exception of a dumb waiter, that was clearly only built lately.

“You would not happen to know when this was added?” I asked.

The other two men shook their heads. On closer inspection, though I found a plaque with the address of the company building it, and it gave a telephone number, indicating that it clearly had been built after 1879, but that did not really help me as such, leaving me still with a time span of fourteen years. I wrote down the number with the intention to ask at their office when Gilad Trenton had engaged them in business and carried on and up the stairs. The ground floor, as already mentioned, had been altered quite considerably, adding nooks and crannies and the one or other orifice that could be easily detected by knocking and listening for any hollow sounds. I found no less than five such hollows, but to neither there seemed to be any access and the state of the wallpaper in each instance showed, it had not been removed or been replaced, being clearly in its place since the mid-1860ies.

Last I searched the dining room, where Trenton had found his end and again, there was nothing. Once more I inspected the dumb waiter, but it clearly terminated here and there was no way anything could have been hidden within it, without blocking the system. And I had assured myself that is worked perfectly. 

The first floor, and with that, the floor Kershaw had not reached in his quest, proved to be equally devoid of jewels despite the surplus of possible hiding places. But it was here that several pictures hung, showing the late Mrs Trenton wearing the gems that her husband had given her each Christmas and stunning items they were. I had heard Mrs Trenton being described as a rare beauty and she had been. Fair, with flawless skin and even features she looked much like a porcelain doll, had it not been for the warmth that shone, even in the photograph, from her large eyes. 

At last, the attic, unaltered since the erection of the house, was inspected and, again, I came out unsuccessful. For a moment I considered searching the outside, too, but as it had gotten dark and the rain still came down hard, I refrained from it, deciding that thinking the matter over might be more sensible for the time being. 

Deep in thought, wondering, what else could be done, for the time being, my contemplations were interrupted by a ring on the door which was duly answered by the maid. A few words were exchanged and then, whoever had wanted to visit, had left again. From the window of the first floor, from which I was about to descend, I saw a short, plump little woman in a practical looking coat with an unadorned hat climb back into her waiting carriage, judging by the state of it obviously a private equipage. 

“Miranda Hannigan was just here to see you. As you have told me earlier today, I told her that you were out of the house.” the lazy voice of the maid sounded upstairs.

“Thank you, Jenny.” was her master's reply, followed by sounds that I assumed stemmed from an intimate kiss. 

“You should not do so, Evvy!” the girl giggled and Lestrade and I looked at one another. “I have just sent away your fiancée and you kiss me like this, with those two nosy chaps around. Don’t you think this is scandalous?.”

“And don’t you like it, Jen?”

“That really takes the cake!” Lestrade muttered and I had to agree, docketing this new information for later, scribbling down the name ‘Miranda Hannigan’ into my notebook. 

Dropping off Lestrade at Scotland Yard, I went into a post office and called the number I had written down. It took a while till I was put through, but at last, I explained my suit and with a little persuasion was duly given the answer. The alteration had been made not two years since, meaning that, though it was not very probable since there was no reason Trenton had wanted to hide the gems for all eternity, the jewels still could be tucked away in the foundations of the dumb waiter.


	24. Pecunia non olet - Part 4

Pecunia non olet – Part 4

 

Sherlock:  
“So this is all you have found?” my wife asked when I had finished my tale while steaming in the hot bath. 

“Yes, I am aware it is not much, but there are a couple of leads I would like to follow.”

“Like talking to the friend mentioned by the other inspector?”

“Inspector Belcher. Yes.” I answered.

“I read that Kershaw was arrested in a pub in Lisson Grove. I know where it is, I pass it regularly on my way home. So could Kershaw have hidden the jewels anywhere along the way?” she wondered, taking the sponge from me and washing my back. 

“Perhaps. But there are other possibilities to…- to consider.” Closing my eyes, my brain refused to function properly under her gentle administrations. “You are distracting me, my dear...”

“Then I’ll stop,” she whispered into my ear.

“Don’t you dare! I can actually do with a bit of distraction. There is currently nothing I can do about the case and it is a long time till the morning.” 

“And what are you going to do in the morning?”

“Go up to Hatfield and talk to Trenton’s friend, then I will have a look at the pub where Kershaw was arrested and perhaps talk to the guard who had first had Kershaw under his care. You know after the initial shock of having been arrested, people sometimes make the one or other significant remark and if I have time after that, I might have a chat with Gilad Trenton’s lawyer regarding the man’s will.”

“Sounds like an awfully long day. I will leave you to get ready for bed then.” she teased smiling at me with her eyes sparkling impishly, before attempting to leave the bathroom.

“I said I could do with some distraction.” I reminded her, pulling her close and giving her a literally wet kiss, as dripping with water, I drenched her nightshirt and braid thoroughly. 

xxx

The next morning I got up at sunrise, which, considering it was already mid-November, was not all that early. Slipping out of bed quietly I managed to not wake my wife, who, smiling in her dreams, was still fast asleep. Preparing myself for a long day and a small journey I kissed her on my way out, while she muttered a drowsy good-bye and left for the station, grabbing a piece of bread on my way out of the house. 

Charles Summerton was about the same age Trenton had been, in his mid-seventies, though with his bend shoulders and scuffling walk he appeared even older. He did not seem to be a healthy man and in this instance, I would have appreciated having either Harriet or Watson with me to give me an assessment about him. Seeing him standing there, all I could be certain of, was that he suffered from a skeletal disease and respiratory problems, though the latter could, of course, have something to do with the cold and moist weather this time of year. But whatever his physical condition, his brain worked perfectly and he proved to be an obliging conversationalist. 

“Trenton was a good man, Mr Holmes,” he began, his voice raspy and feeble, sitting down at a small table with an ivory and jade inlaid chess board and matching pieces, either of breathtaking magnificence. Offering me the chair opposite, he made his opening move. “I miss him. He was a good opponent and we played every Thursday, for more than thirty years. - How old are you, young man?”

“Old enough to not have somebody call me ‘young man’ for the better part of ten years.” I chuckled, moving one of my pawns. “But it is safe to say, that I was still sporting my milk teeth when you played your first game of chess with Mr Trenton.”

“I was under the impression though, that Gilad’s murderer had been caught. So, why is it, you would like to speak to me?”

“Mr Trenton’s heir has arrived from Argentina and he is determined to find the missing family jewels. And hence I was engaged, to assist Scotland Yard in the quest.” I explained, trying to concentrate as much on the conversation as on the game.

“I was not aware the jewels were missing. At least Gilad never said anything about them being so.”

“But you knew about them?”

“Everybody did. They were marvellous,” he stated, taking one of my knights. “I had the pleasure of seeing Mrs Trenton wear them once in a while. Thinking about it, I have never seen or heard of them, since she has died. But then again, Gilad loved her so very much, I would not be surprised if it was too painful a topic for him.”

I nodded, while Summerton took the first piece from me.

“Why was it, that the night Gilad Trenton was killed, you did not meet as usual?”

Summerton looked up at me sadly: “I did not feel well, Mr Holmes. I have been ill for many years, being in pain more often than not, and that week I had contracted a severe spell of rheumatic fever. I was only half conscious and my nurse sent a telegram to my friend, so he would not be troubled with coming here, only to find I was in no state to play him.” 

Sighing deeply he added after a short pause, in which he was staring intently on the board: “If you could just tell me, why? Why from all the Thursday nights we have spent in this room together, the burglary must happen on the one night, the one night in thirty years mind, that we did not meet?”

“If I find the answer to this mystery, Mr Summerton, I will tell you,” I promised, moving my bishop across the board. “Did you know, that when his wife died, he cancelled the insurance he had taken out on the jewels?”

“No, as said, he has never spoken of them ever again. Not that he spoke much of his riches anyway, and especially not after Emily has died.”

“Has he ever spoken of any relation of his, apart from his wife?”

Summerton huffed: “Yes, there was his wife’s sister, Christine something, I cannot remember her name. Got married to a good for nothing chap. If I remember it correctly they fell out shortly after her wedding and did not speak for many years, because of this husband. After Mrs Trenton’s death, they crawled up to Gilad like ivy up a church wall, presumably in an attempt to inherit some of Emily’s finery. As far as I know, they did not get any, but Gilad helped them out with a loan.”

“And they were the only relatives, save for Everett Trenton?”

“I have never heard of this Everett, but I believe there was a female cousin on his side. They have only met once or twice in their lives. Gilad never travelled for pleasure, only for business and he was a man of principles. He stuck to the few people he dearly liked and loved and all the other ones were left aside unless he could not help meeting them.” he sat me into check, but I parried and moved my king out of the way. 

“So he was not a sociable type?”

“No, by no means. Emily Trenton was, though. She kept their social life going and it literally died with her. Checkmate!”

xxx

Had I originally intended to go first to ‘The Wheat-sheaf’ down at Lisson Grove, I decided to now make my way over to Gilad Trenton’s lawyer, as it was more or less on the way from Hatfield anyway, having his chambers in Barnet. 

I was surprised to find a rather younger man than myself. A bright young fellow with red hair, a clean-shaven face and a pair of thick gold-rimmed glasses. With his freckles and the good-humoured expression he looked like an oversized boy and I wagered many a fellow lawyer had underestimated him thus. 

When the clerk announced me, he looked up from a stack of papers, with a welcoming smile and ease and some degree of wit. He politely enquired after my troubles, obviously taking me for yet another client. His face, however, did not falter, when I set him to rights and leaning back he invited me to ask, whatever I liked, concerning Trenton.

“I presume you yourself have not been originally Gilad Trenton’s lawyer, Mr Peters?”

“No, that was my late grandfather. I took over the office about four years ago, after his death,” he answered sincerely. 

“But you have met Gilad Trenton?” I dug deeper.

“Yes, I have. Though only twice. He was a quiet sort of fellow, living a retired life.”

“Did he ever mention any valuable jewels, being in his possession?”

“No, not he. But grandfather once told me about Mr Trenton having a very exclusive collection of very fine gems. As a boy of fourteen or fifteen, that is, how old I was, when I had heard of them, I found it almost as intriguing as reading Treasure Island.”

Trying to assess his age, which I at last estimated of being at least twenty-eight, I calculated that the conversation between grandfather Peters and young Peters must have taken place more than twelve years ago and hence a few years before the death of Emily Trenton, who had passed away in 1889.

“On what occasions did you meet him?” I wondered. 

Furrowing his brows Peters seemed to try and recall these instances and after a short pause answered: “Both times it was about a loan he had given to his late wife’s brother in law. The man seemed to constantly need more funds and Trenton, having been a businessman all his life, did get angry at long last and let me draw up a waiver with the intention of severing all ties that held him to his wife’s relations.”

“When was that?”

“Not long before he was killed. Perhaps four to five months prior for the first appointment and about a month or a little more for the second, when I was finally able to finalise this unpleasant business.”

“What about his will?” I carried on.

“When it was opened, it turned out that his wife was still his sole beneficiary. He had never changed it after her death,” he informed me without hesitation.

“And so you were employed to find the heir?”

“No, that was an Inspector Jacob Belcher, for whatever reason.” Peters seemed to think as highly of the man as I did. His demeanour now had an annoyed undertone. “Can you believe it, he needed more than six months to find this Everett Trenton – and he was only found because the man himself had heard of his cousin's death somehow, presumably through the newspapers, and had come to England straight away producing all the necessary papers and took possession of the inheritance.” 

“Do you know who else could have benefited if Everett Trenton had not turned up?”

“There is another cousin living up north, a Mrs. so and so – I would have to have a look if you could just wait a moment.”

Of course, I could, being most appreciative of his eagerness to help me out with as much information as he could give.

“A Mrs Barbara Broderick of Edinburgh. - Married to Harry Broderick, the owner of a shipping company.”

“Did she make any claims?”

“No, at least not to my knowledge. But the sister in law did. A Mrs Dawson. - She is the sister of the late Mrs Trenton. They were quite upset by not inheriting anything. He – the husband quite forgot himself during the opening of the will.” the young man’s face distorted to an expression of disgust and I realised that he must be a very decent fellow, especially considering his profession, to feel such in a situation as the described one. 

“Have you an address?” I asked, wondering if not perhaps the answer could be as simple as this for once. 

On occasion it is a great mistake of the criminal investigator, to think overly complicated. Sometimes the difficulties lay with what was most simple.

“Sure, 86 Campden Road, Croyden.

“Thank you very much, Mr Peters.”

“Pleasure, Mr Holmes.” he stood up to take my offered hand and then escorted me out of his rooms himself. 

As I stepped onto the street, I spotted a post office opposite the chambers I had just left and in a perhaps rather silly impulse, I decided to send a telegram to my wife, containing nothing but three words.


	25. Pecunia non olet - Part 5

Pecunia non olet – Part 5

Sherlock:  
It was almost tea time when I reached Kings Cross and carried on towards Croydon, taking a train from St. Pancras. The address Peters had given me turned out to be a small old fashioned house, overgrown with ivy. On first glance, it looked fairly cosy but on the second it revealed a hint of neglect. The front porch could do with a new coat of paint and the same applied to the windows, the lawn was overgrown and shaggy, the flowerbeds, that once had lined the paths were full of dried weeds and the path itself had not been swept in a while. Both my wife as well as my landlady would be ashamed to greet anybody with this mess and neither of the two was overly scrupulous. 

A sad looking apple tree, apples unpicked littering the ground, overshadowed the front and only one window was illuminated, it being the only indication that the abode was inhabited at all. I knocked, as the bell wire was broken, and a moment later the door swung open to reveal a woman in her early sixties, her face haggard and filled with bitterness.

“Mrs Dawson?” I enquired politely, cautious that she should not close the door into my face.

“Who wants to know?” was her hostile reply.

“My name, Mrs Dawson is Sherlock Holmes, I would like to ask you a few questions.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously and eventually, she all but spat: “I am not interested. I have never heard of you, so why should I want to answer any of your darn questions? What is this about anyway?”

Ah, so she was interested after all! Good. Pulling a Guinea from my waistcoat pocket and playing with it, I raised an eyebrow as if in contemplation. It was always the same sad method, I admit, but it, unfortunately, worked so incredibly well when trying to get at information, that it would be rather stupid not to make use of it. Where the desperation was big enough, money would always be traded for knowledge.

“I was engaged by a relation of yours – well, a relation by marriage, to be precise.”

“And who would that be?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the small gold disc.

“A Mr Everett Trenton.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He is a cousin of the late Mr Gilad Trenton, your brother in law.” 

She laughed bitterly.

“And what would this Everett Trenton want from me?” 

“You of course know, how your brother in law died, don’t you?” 

A nod was all the answer Mrs Dawson graced me with.

“Since then the famous Trenton jewels are missing. Now, the burglar insisted, he had not found them either, and there seems to be no trace in or around the house, where they could be hidden. So my question is...”

With some incredulous fury, she interrupted me: “Sir, if you are implying, we have stolen them or anything the like, you are completely wrong!”

“I am not assuming any such thing,” I soothed, though a suspicion had been roused and I made a mental note. “I just wanted to know, when was the last time you have seen the gems?”

Now Mrs Dawson looked baffled. 

“When I have seen them last? When Emily was still alive. The Christmas before she died she wore them. We were not on good terms, but on Christmas, we would visit one another, if only it was for tea and to resume our quarrels. That particular Christmas was her turn and I went and she had all her ‘regalia’ on, needing to show off. Always fancied herself to be my superior, she did.”

The jealousy was palpable. I had seen photographs of the late Emily Trenton and she had been a beauty. Her sister, on the other hand, did not resemble her very much, though at one point she must have been fairly pretty as well, as her lips were still full and her eyes were large and of an unusual shade of blue. Her features though were lined, her complexion pasty and her chin fleeting, indicating a weak personality. 

“I have heard from Mr Peters of Barnet that you made a claim to the inheritance?” I carried on.

“And if we have? What business of yours would that be?” Christine Dawson went off again.

“None so far, but were you very surprised, when the inheritance went to this cousin?”

“They never said anything about where it went, just that we are not entitled to have any share. Emily’s jewels went to her husband after she has died and his stuff was supposed to go to the nearest of his blood relatives and that was that.”

At least this tied in perfectly with what Peters had told me. Mrs Dawson did not appear to be very likeable, but she seemed to be fairly honest. - As far as honesty goes.

“Has your sister ever spoken of any cousin of her husbands?”

“One. A lady living somewhere up in Scotland. They wrote to one another, seemed a decent lass that one.”

“A Mrs Broderick?” I enquired, reading the name from my notebook that I had pulled out to scribble down my impressions.

“I believe that was the name. Barbara is the first name if I am not much mistaken. - I think there was another cousin, but he emigrated to South Africa. That was years back though, I was not even married then and Emmy and I were still on good terms.”

I glanced up at her, just in time to see a small smile grace her lips as she remembered these happier times. It made all the difference to her features and a glimpse of the girl she once must have been showed through the rough and worn surface.

“Could it have been South America?”

“Yes, it could be. As said, it was years ago.”

“How many?” I dug deeper, awaiting the answer with bated breath.

“A good twenty, I would say. I got married in ‘74, so it must have been prior to that.” 

“Mrs Dawson, one more thing, this cousin of Gilad Trenton, did he have a wife and children?” 

“No, he had not. They say he left England for a reason if you know what I mean.” 

“Was he a criminal?” 

“So to speak. He preferred the company of men. The close company. The one only a man and a woman are supposed to share.”

I nodded to indicate I understood what she had meant. If this was true, Everett Trenton had every reason to depart and start over in another country. The implication of homosexuality alone was enough in some circles to ruin a man’s life forever. 

Letting the information sink in for a moment or two I eventually thanked her, handed her the Guinea and made to leave, when from the direction of the station a drunk man swayed towards us, his walking stick held in a threatening manner and his face contorted in anger. The woman beside me flinched and automatically stepped behind me in an attempt to shelter herself from the rage of her drunken husband.

William Dawson sported the usual signs of alcohol abuse, his face red and the skin looking almost pockmarked, his cornea was yellowed and his gaze unfocused. 

“What do you want?” he shouted, even before he had entered through the garden gate. “I told you we will not sell!”

“William, he is not here about...” his wife tried to appease him but to no avail. Dawson hobbled towards us undeterred and still swinging his stick wildly above his head.

“I don’t care what he is or not. We will not sell the buffet. It was my great-grandmothers and she was the daughter of an earl, she was.” he slurred, standing now in front of me, his eyes trying to focus on my face. The effort though seemed too much and instead of steadying himself he fell over and onto the rugged patch of grass. As much as I was tempted to leave him where he was, I could not bring it over me to leave his wife to deal with him all alone and so, pulling him up, I slumped him over my shoulder and indicated to the woman to show me the way.

I was fairly surprised to find, that the inside of the house was well kept. Sure, the furniture was old and had seen better days, but everything was neat and clean. The heap of clothes and the sewing machine in the corner told me, that it must be mainly Mrs Dawson’s task to provide for the family, working as a seamstress. And judging by the number of clothes she had already done and the ones that still needed working on, she also seemed industrious. Most wives would have given up in despair, but apparently not Christine Dawson. 

Remembering that the fall out between the two sisters had been due to the unsuitability of the one's husband, the very William Dawson who lay snoring on the faded settee before me, spittle drooling from his agape mouth, I could not help thinking that Emily Trenton had had a point there.

Stepping out into the cold November evening, I wondered whether I should carry on towards Lisson Grove or rather go home. The decision was taken from me though. I was about halfway to the station when it began to rain heavily and I was drenched to my skin. Shivering, I made my way to Baker Street as it was closest, needing a moment to gather my thoughts and to warm up. I was certain I had gotten fairly close to the solution, but there was still a missing piece - the one factor, that connected all the dots and would reveal the full picture. 

Changing into dry clothing I reached for my pipe and violin and sat down in front of the fireplace that thankfully was lit and emanated comfortable warmth, the more appreciated by a man, who had just escaped the frosty grasp of an icy autumn downpour. 

I had sat like this for more than an hour, without realising it had gotten this late and with a start, I made to leave. ‘The Wheat-sheaf’ could wait till tomorrow. Suddenly I was very tired and I longed for a smile and a kiss from my wife and to retire to bed. It had been surprisingly quick, that I had become accustomed to being a husband. And yet, it was easy enough being the husband of Harriet. She was the companion I had never dared to dream of and that at the same time I had often wished for. Accepting, that in matters of the heart I apparently was a hopeless romantic I hailed a cab to get home. A home that was, wherever my wife was. 

xxx

Harriet:  
I had spent my day quite leisurely, once in a while chatting to Martha or Tom, but mostly sitting curled up on the sofa in my study, reading. By midday, I was beginning to feel restless and as there was still the need to fill up my wardrobe again, I was busy cutting out the pieces for a new dress when a telegram arrived from Sherlock. Knowing that when on a case he would only write to me if it was important, I ripped it open, slightly worried, but also intrigued by what it might contain. What it did contain was unexpected and brought a smile to my face and tears to my eyes. There, on the small, official-looking slip of paper the words: I love you, were imprinted.

Suddenly I missed my husband very much, despite him being only gone for the day and I wondered what I could do for him in return. He was so lovely and attentive, I had never dared dream of a husband like him and in the most unlikely situation, we had found one another. Was there something I could do for him? Even if it was just something as simple as cooking his favourite meal? 

With a pang of guilt I realised I did not know, what dish that was, before reminding myself that, with only knowing each other for close to four weeks, a time which, with most people, would not even be enough to consider a proper courtship, this was not quite surprising. And then I remembered, that Mrs Hudson for sure, was bound to know. 

Writing a quick note to her, asking for the required information and at the same time enquiring, if she thought it a good idea to prepare something for Mary Watson’s return in four days I sent Tom over to Baker Street.


	26. Pecunia non olet - Part 6

Pecunia non olet – Part 6

 

Harriet:  
The dear landlady’s reply came promptly and I was relieved it was a dish that did not need several hours to prepare as it was getting late. Setting to work Martha looked at me curiously and then disappeared smiling into the laundry to prepare for wash day – a shamefully delayed wash day.

When Sherlock arrived home, he did not look too well and with a sneeze confessed, that he had been soaked through during the course of the afternoon. Helping him out of his coat, a different one than the one he had left in, I led him into our small sitting room, where the table was already laid.

“I hope you did not need to wait for long?” he asked, looking contritely at his watch. 

It was already past eight, but knowing my husband well enough already, I had been prepared and only needed to finish the meal I had prepared and within ten minutes dinner was served. His eyes widened at the sight of the bubble and squeak I had made for us, together with some of the leftover roast beef and a pint of dark beer.

“It is but a simple meal...” I smiled, plating up a generous slice of the fried cabbage and potatoes. 

“Yes, but it is actually my favourite. How did you know?” he glanced up at me, then burst out laughing. “Of course, Mrs Hudson!”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson helped me out there. I cannot believe I have never asked you.”

“What an oversight in all those long weeks of our marriage...” he joked, tucking into his food with enthusiasm, looking better already, the colour returning to his cheeks and the tiredness leaving him. “This is really good. Almost as good as the bubble and squeak my uncle used to make. But the comparison is hardly fair, as he was the one to introduce me to this dish.” 

“Sherlock, I love you, too.” 

Smiling he took my hand: “Good. This would be a miserable marriage if you would not.”

“Very much so. So, how was your day, my dear? Apart from obviously wet and cold.” I enquired, curious about what he had found and if he had gotten any closer to the solution.

“My day was long and most informative, I would say. As far as I have gathered, no-one has seen the jewels since Mrs Trenton’s death in ‘89. That year, Gilad Trenton also dissolved all the insurances on the items. And since then, all trace of the gems has been lost. It is as if they have disappeared into thin air at the death of Emily Trenton.”

“That is odd, is it not?” I wondered. Had Trenton sold them? I asked Sherlock, but he shook his head.

“If he had, they could be traced, at least some of them. They are unique, Harriet, most unique. I have seen pictures of Mrs Trenton wearing them and they were breathtaking, even in the black and white photographs.”

For a moment he ate in silence, his gaze absent as if he was contemplating something. Then, with a jerk of his head, he looked up, dabbed his mouth with his napkin and stood.

“I am sorry to say so, Harriet, but you have married an idiot!” 

“What is it?” 

“We need to go to Lisson Grove. I have solved the case! Or at least part of it.”

“What, now? It is raining cats and dogs again.” I pointed at the dark window, the rain splattering against it.

“Yes, now. All the time I was so close, Hattie, so very close, there was just one piece missing. One final piece! And I now know what it is.”

I stared at him in confusion as he downed the rest of his beer and then went to put his coat back on. Following him I slipped into my boots, buttoning them up as quickly as I could and then slipped into my coat as well and within five minutes we were on our way back into town, having been lucky to come across a hansom that had just dropped off one of our neighbours.

xxx

“Do you care to elaborate what exactly is going on?” I gasped, slightly out of breath after all the haste.

“Everett Trenton left for South America before 1874,” was the fairly mysterious answer and it took a moment before I picked up on what was off about it.

“But did you not say, he was a young man in his late twenties to early thirties at most?”

“That is exactly the point, Harriet. He could, of course, be the son of the Trenton that left in the early 1870ies, but I was assured that Everett Trenton then was childless and not likely to have any children – and even if he had, later on, they again would be younger than this man.”

“Could he be an illegitimate son, that was later adopted and taken on? Or adopted all together?” I suggested, without much enthusiasm.

“That, of course, is possible,” Sherlock admitted. “But not very likely. Why would the man I have met, and who claims to be Everett Trenton, not simply say so? Legally he would still be the next male heir in line and thus inherit.” 

He had a point there. I sat back in the Hansom and thought about what he had told me, but the only conclusion I could come to was, that the man who claimed the inheritance was a fraud. It was at this point, that the cabby enquired if we were sure to go to ‘The Wheat-sheaf’ in the middle of the slum that was Lisson Grove and even when we told him, this was exactly where we would like to go, he was rather reluctant to follow our instructions.

“Sir, I would not let a lady into that area,” he warned my husband, who, with a smile, assured him, that I knew the district well and the people there knew me in turn and he could hardly do without me. 

This of course was overstated, but in one thing my husband had a point. I was known in the area and it would be much easier with me by his side, to gather information from the locals. Locals who liked to take money from strangers, but did not like talking to them very much. 

xxx 

‘The Wheat-sheaf’ was a dingy pub, whose closest association with any kind of grain was the one with malted barley in its liquid form, but certainly not wheat. When we entered, several eyes fixed on us. Admittedly, we did look out of place, but as soon as one of the girls waiting for customers of another kind, saw me, she waved and greeted me with some enthusiasm, walking over to us, swaying her ample hips. 

“Hey, Doc Stephens, what brings you here? And who is this sweety by your side?” 

“Hello Sally, how are you? Have you taken my advice?” I greeted back, taking her outstretched hand. 

“Oh, I have, it feels so much better now. You know, it’s no good, when it’s dry...” she cast a coquettish glance at my husband who tried to keep his expression fairly neutral and managed as far as only the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement. 

“By the way, this is my husband, Sally.” 

“Oh, Mr Stephens, is it?” I was about to correct her, but Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement and I left it at that. So, Mr Stephens, he would be for the night, it seemed. 

“Is there anything I can help you with Doc? I doubt you came here to have a nice time or did you?” Sally giggled, while another girl had come over, looking curiously at me with her large hazel eyes. I knew her also, but could not name her. She was a tiny creature with a pretty face, a face that was still devoid of the horrible disease she was spreading and that sadly she had chosen to ignore. I could not even hold it against her, she needed to live off something after all, and the world was not kind to women like her.

“No, we did not come here for entertainment's sake, we came here to enquire after an acquaintance of ours.”

“Here?” the smaller girl spat out, looking incredulous. “What acquaintance of yours would come here, madam?”

“I could not possibly say, as most of them would keep their visits a secret, I am sure. But when finishing late at the hospital, I have often seen many a man in a dress suit and top hat.” I answered with an insinuatingly raised eyebrow. “How are you, by the way? Feeling any better or is the sore still troubling you?”

Sherlock in the meanwhile, seemingly uncomfortable by the topic of our conversation, had walked over to the bar and ordered two pints of beer. Leaning over the counter I could see him talking to the landlord, a man as wide as he was tall, his face good humoured – at least as long as no-one tried to cause any trouble, which was more often than not. I knew the girls liked to come here, as he would take care that they would not be abused within his rooms. And from what I had gathered as a reward he often got their services for free. 

“The sore is gone, Doctor. See, there was nothing to worry about, after all,” she answered triumphantly. Sally stared at her with some contempt before doing what I was about to do, namely telling her, that this was one marked symptom of this treacherous disease. 

“Oh, come on!” the girl laughed, waving her hand as if she still thought it to be a joke, but fear had sprung up in her eyes and she had turned a whiter shade of pale.

“It is not funny, Maggie. You should go and see the doctors down at Saint Anne’s, they’ll help you, for sure.”

I was less optimistic than Sally, knowing that the cure for Syphilis was a rather drastic treatment, often killing the person it was supposed to help. In general, I tried to avoid the common treatment with mercurous chloride or some or other form of mercury ointment all together, as I found it often weakened the already much-affected organism. But there was not much of an alternative and one of my many projects at hand was to find one. 

At this moment a man entered the inn and seeing the two women talking to another woman instead of one of the men – the one at the bar, with his decent coat and prim top hat in particular. When the pimp recognised me, his eyes narrowed even more and he walked over to us, trying his best to intimidate me. Women’s rights never sat too well with their dirty lot, even if it was, strictly speaking, also for their own benefit, as a healthy harlot was an asset not to be underestimated. 

To produce a health certificate was most beneficial and so, many brothels actually sent their girls over to us. Which at first, admittedly was more of a nuisance as with them cramming the waiting room, the women needing real medical attention often did not get the chance of seeing a doctor. At long last, I had offered the girls to come one by one, instead of all together and since then it worked well. It also helped with the funds of the hospital, as I had struck a deal, that each of the local brothels would pay a fee in return. With more than ten such establishments this was enough money to buy the most necessary medication for the whole of each month to provide for those much worse off. - Like those needing to rent their beds in one of the flea-ridden hostels littering the district.

With a concerned look on his face, my husband returned, the pints in either hand, beer dripping from them as they were filled to the brink and handing me one he made it very clear that he was not interested in any of the girls and that he would not tolerate any slight towards me. Quickly the pimp disappeared out of the door, while the two prostitutes followed him, knowing that otherwise, they would be in trouble. There was nothing for them here and they needed to earn money, lest they would feel his displeasure.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked with a worried undertone, which made me laugh.

“This, my dear, is my bread and butter, so to speak. Yes, I am all right. And before you ask, I am also quite safe around here. There are enough men and women I have helped and who in turn would lend me a hand if the need would arise.”

“I am aware of that.” was his dry reply. “And still, I have told you before, I do not like it. No husband would. But still, I accept it and I trust you.” he assured me solemnly. 

“Thank you!” I answered and stood on my toes to kiss him. “So?”

“So, the landlord remembers Kershaw. Said he was quite shocked to have killed a man. He had entered the pub white as a sheet and dripping wet, as he had been walking some distance through the misty night. What I was also not aware of was, that he, Kershaw, gave himself away, telling a policeman, checking the pub on his beat, that he had murdered someone and that he should be arrested. He was very drunk at that point and the landlord says the constable just took Kershaw with him to sober up in custody, as he was creating quite a stir.”

“So, I take it our next stop will be the nearest police station?”

“Correct. It’s the one down Edgware Road. But also, and perhaps most importantly, I found Kershaw had not spoken to anybody apart from the constable and the landlord, being too busy getting drunk.”

“And this would be important why?”

“Because now, we can be certain, that Kershaw has met the impostor in prison and if he did so, it will be fairly easy to ascertain, what the man’s real name is.” he smiled disarmingly, wrapping his arm around me possessively, pecking me on the cheek.

“And you can be certain of this, because?”

“Because I have ruled out everything else.”

Leaving most of our beer, as it was not a very good brew, we left the inn and turning right and walked down the alley that would lead us to Edgware Road and the small police station located there. 

On our way there, he continued: “Jimmy Kershaw claimed, he had heard of the famous jewels while drinking in a pub. The landlord said, Kershaw has repeated over and over again, that he should have known better than to trust a drunkard on anything of this kind and that it has brought him nothing but trouble. Having met with Dawson and the time coinciding with Trenton’s attempt to sever all ties with the man, I dare say it was him Kershaw has got the information from. Not purposely, mind, but it would have been easy enough to question him further by showing some compassion. The man is as it seems, a hopeless drunk.”

“Sounds likely, indeed,” I admitted.

“So, with this in mind, what would a man like Kershaw do next?”

“Watch his target?”

“Exactly, my dear. And thus he would have acquired the knowledge, that Gilad Trenton was in the habit of sleeping out of the house every single Thursday and only return during the late morning each Friday.”

“Just that this particular night, Trenton was at home, as his friend had fallen ill and could not keep their weekly appointment.” I finished the sentence for him. 

“Precisely! Only to find no jewels as anticipated, but instead ending up killing an old man, he had thought to be out of the house.”


	27. Pecunia non olet - Part 7

Pecunia non olet – Part 7

Sherlock:  
It was easy enough, to establish, once we had reached the police station, and considering that for this case I was employed by the Metropolitan Police, that Jim Kershaw had, as the landlord at the inn had told me, been originally brought in to sober up, as he was extremely drunk and his remarks rather disturbing. It was later in the day, in fact, several hours later, that somebody at the station realised the man was not joking, but actually telling the truth. By then, the infamous murder of Gilad Trenton had reached the press and the sergeant on duty, having read a paper, had written a note to Belcher, telling him about the man they had in custody and who claimed to have killed a man by stabbing him, which led to Belcher earning the praise for work he had not done. 

Looking through the register for the day in question, I soon found a young man that fit the description for ‘Everett Trenton’. His name was George Walters and though I had never met him, I had heard of him. He was a man, earning his money by fraud of any kind. A professional marriage swindler, impostor and cardsharper. This man had for the duration of two days shared the cell with the rather more likeable Kershaw, who still wallowed in his guilt. It was more than likely, that there and then, the plan to pose as Trenton’s heir had been born. All he now had to do, was find a relation that he could pose as. And what better candidate to chose, than a man who had been living abroad for many years? With Belcher on the case, it was simple enough to walk up to the incompetent inspector and introduce himself as Everett Trenton, the heir to Gilad. 

“And why did it take him several months?” Hattie asked, yawning, but still managing to look attentive.

“Apart from that he needed to create the impression he came over from South America? - Because first, he needed to either find or create an identity he could take on, one that was believable enough so no-one would question him – which no-one did, till today. Then he needed to forge all the necessary papers, and appear on the scene with a believable story to boot, as to why he appeared basically out of the blue.” I explained, cleaning my pipe before stuffing it into my coat pocket.

“With all these preparations, Walters, if it is indeed Walters, must be very annoyed, that despite living in the house, he still is sans bijoux.”

“Yes, so it seems. And he is sure enough of himself, that he even dares to make a scene at Scotland Yard. Then again, it is not unlikely, that he still needs to pay the forger.”

“So one crime leads to another crime leads to another crime...” she mused.

“That my dear is the thing with all things negative. One crime leads to another, one lie leads to another and so forth. Shame it does not also work the other way around. This world would be so much easier if one truth would also lead to another.” I replied dryly.

“And would you like to live in such a world, Mr Sherlock Holmes?” my wife laughed. “I dare say, you would be bored out of your mind.”

“Right you are!”

“And now?”

“We send a message to Lestrade and then go home.”

xxx

“There are two things, I don’t quite understand, Sherlock,” Harriet said when we had reached Baker Street, as it was now very late and my old rooms were just around the corner.

“And they are?” I enquired, settling down with my pipe and preparing for a night of contemplation. 

“Why did we need to go to Lisson Grove tonight? And where are the jewels?”

Grinning at her, I replied: “Well, to answer your first question, because I wanted to have a pint at ‘The Wheat-sheaf’...”

“Sherlock!” she wagged her finger in mock sternness, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“No, actually the answer is quite simple and the reason a selfish one,” I told her, now serious again. “I needed to make sure my deductions this far had been right, as I have already begun to form a theory. I could not, however, get any closer to the solution, unless I found out, what happened in Lisson Grove. Now I know that Kershaw had not had the time to hide anything, as he had walked from Hampstead to the pub and was actually in custody long before we had thought. He had not been arrested little more than six hours after the crime was discovered, but two and a half hours after the crime had been committed. And having spent some of this time already with getting as drunk as he possibly could, because the man might have been a professional thug, but certainly not a murderer, there was no possible way, he could have hidden anything.”

“Could he not have had an accomplice after all?”

“He could have, of course,” I admitted. “But I doubt it. If there was another person working with him, why did this man not stop him from going to Lisson Grove to drown his sorrows? Letting him go there in the state of mind Jimmy Kershaw was in, would have been as good as being caught. If he had an accomplice and had handed him the gems, he most likely would have been beaten up to keep him from doing what he had done. Yet, the man ended up in ‘The Wheat-sheaf’ at barely such a time, that he could have walked there.”

“And Dawson?”

“The Dawson’s are barely scraping by. If they had the jewels, they would live like kings. But neither has the house been refurbished nor have they acquired any other kind of luxury within the last several years. As it is, they only seem to manage, because Mrs Dawson is doing an enormous amount of sewing.”

“But if the jewels are not in the house, not stolen and hidden by Kershaw and not with the Dawson’s, where are they then? The lawyer? The friend?” Harriet questioned further, though she looked ready to fall asleep on the spot.

“My dear, it is time for you to go to bed, while I will sit up and meditate on the very questions you have just asked.” I smiled, getting up to usher her into bed and kiss her good-night.

But before I could leave, another thought had crossed her mind and holding me back she asked: “Sherlock, what about Miranda Hannigan? She might be clumsy and all, but she is a good-hearted creature who deserves better than to be treated like this. She will be devastated.”

“My love, there will always be those suffering from the actions of others. As much as one pities them, you must try and stay detached or else it will break you. If she is as amiable as you say, she’ll find somebody worthy in time. Better being duped for a short while and have a second chance, then ending up married and live in misery till death does one part. - Look at Mrs Dawson.”

xxx

Harriet:  
When I woke up the next morning it took me a while to remember where I was. My husband had obviously not joined me in bed, which meant he either was still sitting where I had left him, or he was already out and about. Glancing out the window I sighed at seeing that today was yet another day of foggy grey London weather and that lighting would be required even in the middle of the day. It was cold and windy and the last few leaves were blown off the lonely plane tree in the back yard of 221b Baker Street. I really needed to convince Mrs, Hudson to plant some colourful flowers in the spring – or at least let me plant them.

Wrapping myself in a shawl I opened the door to the sitting room and found it as foggy as the outside. My husband, the pipe still between his lips was sitting cross-legged in front of the now extinguished fire staring into space, while his fingers drummed restlessly on the armchairs armrest, showing how busy his mind was. 

When he became aware of me, he took the pipe out of his mouth and smiled. A triumphant smile that told me, he had solved the puzzle.

“So, where are the jewels?”

“Oh, my dear, how typical of a woman, to first ask about her most precious concerns...” he teased, being in a particularly good mood, by the looks of it.

“My most precious concern is my husband, but as I can see he is well and has solved the mystery, I did not want to insult him, by asking such profane questions as to his well-being. So?”

“Touché! I will tell you, in a moment, but I suggest, we wait for Lestrade. I have sent him a telegram about an hour ago and he should be here promptly. So you better get dressed, unless you want to meet the man dressed in nothing but your chemise.”

“No, that is a sight destined only for the eyes of my husband. - And doctor, at most.”

“I am glad to hear it.” 

xxx

The inspector arrived not ten minutes after I had gone to get dressed and only moments after I had finished, though my hair was not pinned up yet.

“Holmes, you cannot be serious regarding Everett Trenton!” the man cried out, as he entered. “And you said you know where the jewels are. Where would that be, I am sure we have looked everywhere.”

“I have taken the liberty of ordering some breakfast and as soon as it is served, I will answer all your questions. Just this one I’ll answer straight away – I am sure, about Everett Trenton not being Everett Trenton, but George Walters.”

“But that would be truly infamous! And engaging the police in his scam is just unbelievable!”

“It is, what stopped people from asking questions, actually. You know how it works. But if he went to the police himself, who would dare think he was not, who he claimed he was?” my husband answered suavely. 

He was right. No-one would think a man so impudent, as to do what Walters had done. Yet, it made perfect sense.

Mrs Hudson arrived with the breakfast tray and while I helped her laying out the dishes, she slipped me a piece of paper. It did not escape my husband, however. With a raised eyebrow he glanced at me and I knew, as soon as the inspector was gone, I would be questioned thoroughly. Smiling I thanked her and with a challenging grin, tucked the epistle into my pocket. 

“So, now I believe all of us would like to know, where the famous Trenton jewels are, Mr Holmes.” Lestrade began the conversation again, helping himself to a cup of coffee.

“It is easy enough, Inspector. I have told you several times, that when you have ruled out all else, the solution must be the one option that remains, no matter how unlikely.”

“The dumb waiter shaft?”

“No. The jewels are actually with their owner.” Sherlock answered, with a sly expression that made me cautious. He certainly did not mean Everett Trenton, nor did he mean Mrs Broderick nor the Dawson’s, but who was left?

“Their owner?” Lestrade flared up. “But after your conclusion, that Everett Trenton is an impostor, who would be the owner?”

“Mrs Trenton.” was the quiet but determined answer.

Lestrade and I stared at Sherlock Holmes as if he had just grown a second head. 

“Mrs Trenton?!” the inspector finally ejaculated, looking fairly angry, while I, after having let the information sink in, realised Sherlock must be right.

“Yes, Mrs Emily Trenton.”

“Holmes, she is dead.” the official still insisted.

“That is my point. Yes, she is. I never said she was not.”

“But you said the jewels are with her.”

“It is because they are. All trace of the jewels was lost, when Emily Trenton died,” he explained. “No-one has heard of them or seen them since. Gilad Trenton even dissolved the insurance shortly after her demise – because he did not have them any more. The jewels were bought for her and were never meant to be owned by any other person, as the couple stayed without children. Else it might have been different. Trenton was well aware of everybody wanting a share of the riches, and so he decided to elude them all, by putting the jewels into the coffin, to be with the one person they were meant for, the one person he adored, for all eternity.”

“It is lucky for you, that this cannot be proven,” Lestrade said glumly. 

“It can. The Trenton’s are buried in a vault and I have already requested permission for an exhumation.”

“On what grounds? It needs a reason, you know.”

“I gave as reason, that someone made a claim of having seen the late Mrs Trenton alive and well, and that we now, considering she would inherit quite a fortune if she were still alive, want to ascertain, that she really is dead and buried. This should be a sufficient enough reason. And at any rate, I know the judge and he owes me a favour.”

“We will need a doctor...”

“We have a doctor.” Sherlock pointed at me. 

“Yes, of course. How stupid of me! If you are up to it?” 

“I am,” I assured him, being too curious to pass on the chance of seeing if Sherlock was right. Though I was sure of it, his reasoning made perfect sense. “What will you do with the jewels?”

“Leave them there.”

“Good.”

xxx

It was only the next day, that we got permission to open Emily Trenton’s grave and as the lid of the coffin was lifted and the skeleton revealed, alongside the lingering smell of decomposition, I carefully lifted her head, with her now matted but skilfully braided grey hair, while Sherlock pulled out the discoloured silk cushion from underneath. I could see it was heavy and when he cut it open on the underside with his penknife a thick, padded jewellery roll fell out. 

Lestrade gasped, as Sherlock opened the roll to reveal the items within. The pieces were breathtaking, so much so, that by the mere description, I could not have imagined their beauty. Even in the dim light of the vault, the stones shone, as if they themselves were illuminated. After a couple of minutes, my husband rolled the sheath together again, pushed it back into the cushion, to place it once again under the dead woman’s skull.


	28. Pecunia non olet - Part 8

Pecunia non olet – Part 8

Harriet:  
On leaving the crypt Lestrade told us, that the previous night George Walters had been arrested on the charge of fraud and marriage swindling and was now awaiting his trial. And with this, the case should have ended. But it did not, in fact, it was only the beginning of even more outrageous discoveries connected to the Trenton jewels, George Walters and the lady he had promised marriage. And so peculiar were these discoveries, so scandalous and at the same time naive, that for once my husband agreed that he had never come across something like it ever before in his career. - At least not as a whole package, as in the separate aspects, there was hardly anything remarkable at all. 

But at any rate, little did we expect any of this when we drove home. What I had expected though, was to be fairly busy for the next few days with various preparations regarding Mrs Watson’s return. As I did not know the woman myself, I had asked Mrs Hudson to make a list of things we could do, to make the lady’s arrival more comfortable and welcoming. It had been this list which she had slipped me the day before and which in turn had led to a rather hilarious interrogation as soon as we had settled ourselves in the cab. 

“You know Harriet,” Sherlock began a sneaky grin on his features, “I do start to worry.”

“What about, my dear?” I enquired, at first looking confused.

“About you sharing secrets with my landlady...” was his reply.

“So I have managed to rouse my husband's curiosity?”

“Don’t you always?” he asked, raising his left eyebrow questioningly. 

“Yes, but admittedly it does not take much to do so, my dear.” I smiled back sweetly.

“And?” 

“And?”

“Harriet!” 

“Sherlock?”

“You know you can drive a man insane, don’t you?” he growled in mock exasperation.

“How so?” I asked back, smiling innocently, guessing by now, what he was on about.

“Could you please tell me, what you and Mrs Hudson are up to, as I grow increasingly worried about it?”

“Ah, that you mean. But again, why would you be worried?”

“Because I know both of you and thus conclude you are up to something. That is why.” was his dry reply.

“Wise man! You could be a detective with those conclusions of yours...” I remarked laughing, while the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously. “But you don’t need to worry, my dearest, we are only plotting on what to do, to help out the Watson’s on Saturday.”

“Oh, I have almost forgotten...” my husband admitted, looking slightly sheepish.

“I would have been more surprised had you remembered. - Then again, as it seems, we require your help.” I mused. “Mrs Hudson will take care of a good dinner, while I will take care of the house being in pristine condition, and well heated and so forth.”

“And what is it you want me to do?” 

“Get us the key, without the Doctor realising.” I grinned.

Sherlock Holmes gaped at me before asking uncertainly: “And why this secrecy?”

“Because we don’t want to embarrass them,” I answered. “We have decided to prepare everything and then leave, so they have some time to themselves in comfort.”

“And their maid?”

“The new maid will not start till Monday and neither does the nurse – that is why Mrs. Hudson and Jane helped out last week.”

“Oh dear. It seems I need to pay more attention to what is going on around me.” Sherlock sighed. “At least in regards to those instances that don’t concern crime.”

“Perhaps. But you could just as well stay the kind-hearted and lovely man you already are and let your wife remind you of all the tedious social obligations a married couple has to perform.”

“You think me to be so? Kind, I mean,” he asked, his expression clearly showing he thought I was making fun of him.

“Yes. I think you to be very kind and loving.” I replied in earnest, looking straight at him and into his eyes. “I could not wish for a more attentive husband, actually - or a more caring one.”

A very humble thank you was the answer. This time it was him who had to admit to not being used to such kind of praise. As it seemed, we were more alike than we had initially thought.

As the carriage turned into our street, Sherlock pulled me close, wrapped his arms around me and glancing at the drizzle asked: “Do you think we could get away with spending the rest of the day in bed? I can turn into quite a lazy sod when having solved a case I have to admit and regarding you, I know you certainly should rest some more.”

“Are you sure I will get any rest with you in bed with me?”

Helping me out of the carriage he answered with a simple “No”, that was accompanied by one of his lovely boyish smiles, his eyes sparkling.

xxx

We did not go to bed, however, as we were unlucky to have Martha having stripped down our bed to change the bedding and air the mattresses and instead we retreated to my study as we had done on Monday when our comfortable arrangement had been cut short by the arrival of Inspector Lestrade. 

“So, what do you suggest we do with my house in the long run? It is a bit big to only keep for the weekends.” I wondered suddenly, as we lay snuggled up on the sofa in my study to read, while outside the weather continued to be dismal. 

“It might be a bit big now, but once we have a little family, we will appreciate the space, I dare say. And let’s face it, Baker Street is not exactly suitable for raising children for many different reasons.” he mused, unconsciously slipping his hand down till it rested on my abdomen. “Not least, because of all the criminals invading my rooms at any given hour – or my chemical experiments. I would prefer for our children to grow up in a more, let us say, protected environment. And as I was an extremely curious lad I am a bit timid to have my own children have access to chemicals, or various weapons or all the other stuff my work requires. It is not so much the carpet I am worried about, but rather the house as a whole...”

At his wry expression, I had to laugh. - The house as a whole? Oh dear! I wondered what he really had been like as a boy, but there was little doubt, he must have been a most curious child. And then it struck me, that this was the first time he spoke of us having children as a certainty. There was a decisiveness and yet gentleness in his voice that left little doubt about his intentions and seemingly rather sooner than later. I myself was not quite sure if I was ready for this step just yet. It would mean for me to give up on many things, and still, it had never in my life crossed my mind not to have children - if I managed to find a husband, that was. Now I was married, to Sherlock Holmes, and though I was reluctant to give up on all I had worked so hard for, I knew we would find a solution. Or at least a compromise which would suit us all. And certainly, we could wait for a year or two – or let nature decide. And at any rate, we had not been careful in our actions at all and it had not bothered me very much till now. Perhaps my subconscious mind wanted to tell me something my brain was yet reluctant to accept. 

Glancing up, my eyes met with his grey ones, a warmth in them that no-one who had encountered this man in a merely professional way would have thought he possessed. Sherlock often seemed cold and forbidding, almost unapproachable, but he was anything but. As a private man, he was loving, caring, witty, teasing, kind, understanding and passionate and the better I knew him, the more I loved him. With all my heart. Taking the book from his hands and putting it aside I turned around in his arms to kiss him deeply, I just had to. His eyes widened in surprise before he started to kiss me back with equal eagerness.

Our little encounter, however, was once again cut short, when there was a violent ring on our door and I heard the shrill almost hysteric voice of a woman. Groaning we parted and straightened our clothes.

“I will follow you in a moment,” Sherlock said in an exasperated tone of voice, while I was already on my way through the door and downstairs.

xxx

What met my eyes was beyond what I had expected. There in my doorway stood a thoroughly dissolved young lady. Literally dissolved. Miranda Hannigan was not very elegant at the best of times, but now she looked akin to a scarecrow. Her hair looked as if she had been pulled backwards through a hedge, her hat sat at an awkward angle in such a way that I was rather mystified it still sat on her head at all and her coat was buttoned the wrong way so that it formed an unsightly bulge where it was most unflattering. The hem of her skirt was dirty, as if she had stumbled over it a few times – which with her was more than likely and her gloves were put on in such a way, that she had, much like children do, ended up having her forefinger and ring finger in one finger of the glove together, while one was unoccupied. She looked hilarious – till the very moment one met her eyes and saw the desperation in them and the tears streaking her comely face.

I could not help it, stepping forward I put my arms around her and let her cry on my shoulder for a moment or two, till she had calmed down sufficiently to be offered to come in.

“Oh Doctor Stephens, I don’t know what I shall do!” she all but shrieked. “It is all so bad. I went to St. Anne’s and they were kind enough to give me your address. I need some sound advice and you are a clever lady, being a doctor and all – you were the only person I could think of, who could possibly help me.”

Leading her into my sitting room I helped her out of her coat and gloves, almost forced her into a chair and then pressed a cup of tea into her hands. - This universal remedy that only ever seems to work with an English man. With a Frenchman, I presume it is the wine and with a German the beer that serves an equal purpose. 

“This morning I have received a message that they have arrested my fiancé, can you believe it? It said he was a marriage swindler and was only after my money.” her voice at this announcement sounded incredulous, but not hurt at all. 

I glanced at her confused. The loss of Everett Trenton did not seem to bother her very much. But what then was this about?

It was at this instance that Sherlock stepped into the room, looking puzzled as well, obviously having overheard at least part of the conversation – well her voice, in her excitement, was loud enough to ring through most of the house without any difficulty.

“Oh, I did not know you had a visitor, Doctor.” she excused herself, getting up from her chair and managing to throw it over in the process. 

“Sir!” she curtsied clumsily.

“Miss Hannigan.” was Sherlock’s bemused reply. Only when he cast a strange look at me and with an inconspicuous gesture steered me out of the room, did I realise something was off.

“What is going on?” I asked, as soon as we had closed the kitchen door behind us.

“This is Miss Hannigan?”

“Yes, this is Miranda Hannigan. Why?”

“Because she is not the woman I saw.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am. I happen to be a rather observant man,” he stated with an amused undertone. “The Miss Hannigan that has visited the supposed Everett Trenton was taller and had a decidedly smaller waistline. She carried herself very differently as well and she was left-handed – while this lady is clearly right-handed.”

“How can you know the other lady was left handed? You only saw her from an upstairs window and from the back if I remember it correctly.”

“Because she struggled to open the carriage door with her right, even though a carriage handle is, in general, easier to open with ones right, as the knob turns clockwise. She then switched to her left hand and managed easily.”

“Perhaps she has an injured wrist or something. - I would not be surprised.”

“Neither would I from what I have seen of this lady, but it is also, that she used her left hand to lift her skirt so she could climb into the vehicle – pulling herself up with her right, thus eliminating the possibility of having an injured hand. Try it. - You, my dear, being right handed would naturally use your right to lift up your skirts and pull yourself up with your left.”

“All right, assuming you are right and the lady you saw was not Miranda Hannigan, then who was she?” I wondered.

“I don’t know. - But are you sure this is the right Miss Hannigan? Just to be certain.”

“She was introduced to me by another lady, a Mrs Willis, who volunteers at the hospital and who is acquainted with my aunt. I believe Miss Hannigan and Mrs. Willis are neighbours.”

“Good.”

We both returned to the sitting room, relieved to find her and the furniture well. 

“I am sorry for the interruption.” Sherlock excused his behaviour. “I just needed to ask my wife where she has managed to hide my pipe… - By the way, my name is Sherlock Holmes, I am, this ladies lucky husband.”

“Oh dear, I did not know!” Miss Hannigan exclaimed, jumping up from her chair again and once more knocking it over.

“Don’t be alarmed, you came here for my wife’s advice as far as I have gathered it and I will leave you to it. I am only looking for my pipe. - Ah, here it is.” - It had been lying in plain sight on the sideboard.

Kissing me on the cheek he whispered: “Good luck!” and then disappeared upstairs again. 

“So, you have received a note saying that the man you are engaged to is a fraud.” 

“Yes!” 

“I am so sorry, Miss Hannigan, I don’t know what I can say to this.” and I really did not.

“Neither do I. I have no idea why the police would think I am engaged.”

I stared at her, speechless. This was not what I had expected at all. Could it be, that someone had been conning the confidence trickster? 

“Then why are you so… - so beside yourself?” I, at last, managed to say, sitting down on the chair closest to me.

“Because about three hours ago I received this.” she searched her various pockets till she remembered that she had stuffed the second letter into the front of her shirtwaist.

Handing me the note I read through it with knitted brows then looked up again.

“You are being blackmailed?” 

She nodded vigorously. “So it seems. Someone claims to have seen me with my supposed fiancé, kissing!”

I refrained from pointing out that the letter claimed a lot more intimacy than just a simple kiss.

“But could you not prove that you have never known this man?” 

“I would of course, but how? Even the police think I am this man’s betrothed. I am even to appear in court against him!”

She had a point there. Could George Walters be applied to, to save her reputation? If there was no other way, it might have to do.

“Do you have any idea how I might get out of this mess? As said, you are the only person that came to mind, who would not judge me.”

“Why would I judge you? These things happen easily and many a misunderstanding has led to an innocent woman being slighted.” 

I thought back to the beginning of my own marriage and realised just how lucky I had been. For me, it had turned out to be a blessing, but then again, Sherlock Holmes was a very honourable man. I had every reason to trust him in the first place. In Miranda Hannigan’s case, I dearly hoped there would be a happy ending and thought it was rather doubtful, not with what I had heard as yet.

“Because most people would assume, that with an accusation like this, there must be a reason. But there really is none, I swear.”

“The letter implies something of a more intimate nature and a loss of virtue could be proven,” I suggested carefully.

“But that is the very thing, Doctor, it cannot.”

“But if you have never been with a man I could testify to it, as a doctor.”

“I am no virgin any more...” she spoke so quietly that I almost did not hear what she had said. 

And when what she had said sank in, I was relieved I was sitting down already. 

“See, even you are disgusted by me...” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

“I am not disgusted. What a nonsense!” I replied, biting my lip as I had been about to point out I most commonly worked with prostitutes but remembered at the last moment, that she might misunderstand my meaning. Getting up to put my hand on her shoulder soothingly I added instead: “I am only surprised, that is all.”

“It was after my parents' death, he comforted me...” she confessed. “And at one point we started kissing and it went on. Since then we spend almost every night together.”

I gaped at her. If I remembered it correctly her parents had been dead a while.

“Is he married?” I, at last, asked, then thought about the ridiculousness of my question as it would hardly be possible for a married man to spend so many nights as she had implied with his mistress.

“No. But I think he thinks he is not good enough for me. And yet I would marry him straight away. - He never must find out about these accusations!”

“Then I presume he is one of your servants?”

She nodded, smiling warmly and it was obvious she loved the man deeply. 

“Perhaps you should ask him to marry you,” I suggested.

“I have, but he thought it indecent – as if he were taking advantage of my position and fortune.”

Sighing I offered her another cup of tea, which she gladly took. Sometimes men were weird creatures. There he was, making love to his mistress, which could consequently get her into deep trouble and yet, he was reluctant to have a minor scandal in making her his wife. – If it even would cause a scandal, considering the daughter of such an illustrious man as Lord Thornhill had, a few years ago, married a penniless artist without any further uproar and both were now accepted and valued in the society.

“So, what am I to do?” she asked after a while. Never before had I seen Miranda Hannigan this composed. With a serene calm to her friendly face and warm eyes, she looked very pretty actually.

“I would say, what you are in want of, is a consulting detective.”


	29. Pecunia non olet - Part 9

Pecunia non olet – Part 9

Harriet:

“But I do not know any such men.” Miranda Hannigan spoke softly and looked, though composed, as insecure as a little child.

“You are in luck there, Miss Hannigan, I do. And you are in even better luck, as the very best of them is currently upstairs, smoking his pipe.” I assured her, and called for Martha to ask Sherlock to come down and join us.

“Your husband is a detective? How interesting!” Miss Hannigan exclaimed and being back to her old self, almost knocked over her teacup. “I was sure he was a doctor, too. He seemed so very intelligent.”

“Well, my husband will be happy to hear it, I dare say,” I replied wryly.

Having waited expectantly anyway, it was not difficult to secure my husband's assistance in the matter, rather the contrary. And so Sherlock Holmes listened in silence as I repeated to him, what had been said, while Miss Hannigan, who had first tried to tell the story herself, but had failed to utter any two words of sense regarding the matter to a complete stranger, sat by shyly. Once in a while she nodded and I had the feeling she wanted to add something, but let me finish without interrupting. When I had ended Sherlock stared into space for a moment, then glanced at his new client and enquired: “Your manservant, how long has he been with you?”

“My parents died two and a half years ago in a boating accident. My mother could not swim and father wanted to rescue her and both drowned. I hired Robert about a year and a half ago so I would have a man in the house. It is not good for a woman to live on her own – or only with other women and I only had three maids and a cook.”

“Do you keep a carriage?”

“No, I don’t need one. I am not going out very often and if I do, I can just as well take a cab or take the omnibus.”

Sherlock Holmes only nodded, taking to inspecting the letter.

“Cheap paper, low-quality ink in black, written in print – odd. There are some spelling mistakes indicating an uneducated person – unless of course, we have a person, who only wants to appear illiterate. But no, the mistakes are consistent and common with the lower classes and a merely basic education. Whether it is written by a man or a woman I cannot say. It could be either.” he muttered under his breath, while Miranda Hannigan stared at him in awe. Bringing the paper up to his nose he added thoughtfully: “No hint of perfume, but I detect some kind of spirit – gin I would say - and beer. I dare say, this was written in a pub, a not overly clean pub, to be more precise.”

Now we both looked at him and he smiled in amusement at our astonishment. 

“I am afraid without a sample I cannot determine the author of this epistle.” Sherlock at last announced. “It does not look familiar?”

Miss Hannigan shook her head decidedly and at last her hat slipped off of her head and landed on the floor with a soft rustle. I bend down to pick it up for her, lest any more accidents would happen.

Again the detective fell silent, deep in thought and it was only till Martha announced dinner was ready, that he moved again. Miss Hannigan declined my invitation to join us and with a small and hopeful smile left for home, forgetting her gloves on my sideboard.

“You have not overstated, my dear, when you told me she is a rather – how did you put it – exceptional,” Sherlock said when she had left in the direction of the station. “Dear me, she is the most awkward and clumsy person I have come across in a good while. But I have to agree with you, when you say, she is also a very kind-hearted creature. She most certainly is. And unfortunately very naive.”

“So, are you looking into the matter?” I asked while Marta served our meal.

“Yes, of course. - But for tonight I think I will have another try on having a peaceful snuggle on the sofa with my wife in my arms.”

“Do you really think it will work? Each time we try, somebody comes knocking on our door. I get the feeling the sofa is cursed.” I joked and he started laughing.

Only when the maid had left us to our meal did he reply to this with a smirk on his face: “Yes, I think you might be right. Better let's go to bed straight away after dinner. By the way, I do have a couple of questions, I would like to have answered.”

“What about?” I wondered, squashing some peas onto the back of my fork.

“It seems I am in need of some anatomy lessons,” he confessed. “For obvious reasons, I am quite familiar with the workings of the male body, but I did not pay much attention when my professor told us about the peculiarities of the female one. - I was more focused on the criminal aspect of medicine than on the normal bodily functions. I fear I am somewhat lacking there, having never been aware there are so many differences between a man and a woman apart from what meets the eye.” 

I stared at him confused before the penny finally dropped: “You mean the bleeding?”

My husband nodded and I could detect a hint of embarrassment that suited him quite well. 

xxx

Sherlock:

And so, the next morning Harriet and I went to visit George Walters in his prison cell. Now that he was behind bars he seemed surprisingly open and talkative, and still, there was some cunning about him, that made me deeply distrustful. 

“So, you have found me out.” he smiled lopsidedly when he saw us approach. “And who is this lovely lady?”

“Mrs Holmes,” I replied smugly, pulling Harriet a little closer, who eyed Walters with equal scepticism. 

Walters first seemed surprised, then laughed. An astonishingly hearty and honest laugh, free of all spite and malice, showing that after all, he was just another soul driven to desperate measures by circumstance. - Not that this was an excuse. With his capacities, he could have taken another road, for sure. Many men had done it before him. If I looked at young Wiggins, who once had been nothing but a street urchin, with his wit he had by now made it into the police force and, as far as I knew, was rising fast. 

“Well, if you have managed to find such a beautiful lady to share your table and bed with, I might as yet be lucky.” the young man at last chuckled, offering us a seat on his narrow prison bench, while he himself sat down on the stool at the rickety table which still held half of his meagre breakfast. 

“I doubt you suffer any shortage of unsuspecting women in your bed, Mr Walters. Like Miss Hannigan, for example.” I replied, a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

“Not unsuspecting, Mr Holmes. I have never tricked a woman into sharing my bed, they all have come voluntarily, believe it or not. Though I have to admit that I did take advantage of their belief I was a rich man. And why not? It is not as if they behaved decently or had honourable intentions. - But I doubt this is a topic I should pursue with a lady present.”

“I am a doctor and work mainly with prostitutes, there is little I have not heard already,” Harriet replied suavely, catching the man off guard.

“You do?! Oh...” he stammered looking at her more closely. “Well, then. I have never made any advances on Miss Hannigan if that is what you are on about. She is a lady and I would never risk the wrath of society.”

“But you do not deny, that you got engaged to her for the money?” I enquired, leaving it out for the moment, that the woman he knew was not Miranda Hannigan, but an impostor.

“Actually I did not. We were caught in a situation that left me no other way out than to ask for her hand in marriage. You should have seen her brother! And after that, I simply could not get rid of her again.”

“What kind of situation?” 

“We met at a soiree and she stumbled on a set of stone steps which led from one room to the other and literally landed on top of me, knocking me to the ground. In her quest to get up she rubbed against me in a way that… - made it clear I did not find her unattractive or disliked what she did in this instant.” Walters finished his sentence with his eyes averted. 

“And I take it this was how her brother came upon you?” Harriet wondered, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Yes. By then we were both back on our feet, but she seemed to have injured her foot and I steadied her – her dress was still not straightened and I, too, was in no condition to return into society just yet. Clemence, that is the brother, insisted upon me, to take full responsibility for my behaviour. What was I supposed to do? I mean admittedly I was not who I claimed to be and I did not want to make a fuss.” 

There was a decided irony about this whole situation which was almost priceless – were it not for a young lady who had indeed been most shamefully used. - Though apparently not by this man.

“I would have married her if it was not to be avoided. And so I tried, over the few weeks of our engagement to be as inattentive and impolite as I possibly could in the hopes of her leaving out of her own free will. But she just did not go away. She clung to me like a limpet!” the prisoner cried out clearly exasperated. 

What he said though, made sense. He indeed did not appear to honour the false Miss Hannigan with much attention, let alone respect. It should have made me suspicious. A marriage swindler by rule was overly attentive towards the woman he wanted to ensnare, not dismissing her when she was visiting him with the rather lame excuse that he was busy.

“Where does Miss Hannigan live?” I, at last, enquired, taking out my notebook to write down the address.

He gave an address in Notting Hill and I heard Harriet gasp.

“One more thing, could you describe Clemence Hannigan to me?” 

“If you gave me a pencil and paper I could draw him.” Walters offered and sceptically I handed him my notebook.

With a few swift lines, the image of a man appeared. Round-faced, a little on the chubby side with a whimsy moustache and slight jug ears. His eyes seemed rather beady and his mouth appeared to be pouting. But it was clearly a decent portrait. Who would have thought this man to be so artistic?

“This is Clemence Hannigan, Mr Holmes.”

“And his sister?”

He drew her as well. It was clearly not the Miss Hannigan we had met. This woman was neither pretty nor actually ugly, but her face was so ordinarily plain, that describing her only with words was proving difficult. The original was decidedly more pretty than her, even though she did not have a fashionably tiny waist.

“She is not coincidentally left handed? Harriet enquired curiously, glancing at the two drawings.

“How do you know? Yes, she is.”

My wife nodded, taking in the information with a side glance at me.

“I dare say you have helped us a lot, Mr Walters.” I, at last, told him while waiting for the guard to unlock the cell and leading us out.

“I am glad. I would be even more glad, if you could help me, also. I might have tricked the one or other rich man and posed as the heir of Gilad Trenton, but I have never been a marriage swindler. That accusation is simply not true and I would be glad if you could make it known to the police.”

“Not even the first time around?” 

“Not even then. It was her, who broke the engagement and then said I was only after her money. - Admittedly it was one of the reasons I got engaged to Josephine Jameson, but it was not the only reason. Can a man not fall in love with a woman who is above him and not be seen as mercenary? - Probably not.” he sighed.

“Do you think he is telling the truth?” Harriet asked as we stepped into the cold drizzle outside.

“I think he might. At least not everything he has said is a lie.” I mused, lighting a cigarette with some difficulty. “You seemed to know the address, my dear.”

“Yes, it is Miranda Hannigan’s, I am pretty sure,” she answered worriedly. 

“I thought as much. I suggest we go and pay your friend a visit and see if perhaps the portrait fits anyone she knows. - But first, we should take some lunch. After last nights exertions, I cannot have you go hungry, my love.”

Blushing she turned towards me, raising an eyebrow.

“What?” I asked her innocently, taking her hand to kiss it.

“You are impossible!” my wife laughed and then linked arms with me and walked down the street where a sign indicated an inn.

xxx

Miss Miranda Hannigan was as clumsy as ever, when she greeted us, but also as warm-hearted and I wondered how she would react to the drawings Walters had made. I was slightly disappointed at not seeing the only male servant as we were told he had his afternoon off, but had I suspected one of the maids to have posed as her mistress, I soon found, that none of them resembled the woman I had seen from the upstairs window of the Trenton villa in figure and none resembled the drawing Walters had provided by her countenance. And for that matter, not a single one of them was left-handed. 

At last, I showed Miss Hannigan the drawings. She looked at them intently, biting her lip.

“They do look familiar, but I could not say. I don’t go out in society much since my parents have died, but I might have passed them. And this woman is really posing as me?”

There was a hint of annoyance in her features as she stared at the other woman’s picture for several minutes as if she could stare her other self down.

“We look nothing alike!” she, at last, said, handing me back my notebook.

As I had determined before, they really looked nothing alike. The real Miss Hannigan was not only more handsome I also doubted that even if the other woman was a lot less clumsy, I would think her superior to this sweet hapless creature before me.

“And this is really who this man is engaged to?” Miss Hannigan asked for the umpteenth time and I began wondering if she had gotten into her head to save him, till the moment she said the first unkind thing I had ever heard escape her mouth: “It does not speak for him or his taste.”

Harriet smiled broadly at this proclamation and patted the ladies back.

“Well, I now need to leave, I am afraid. There is a committee which I would like to join and it will meet in ten minutes down at Westminster.” she chattered on, slipping into her overcoat and putting on her hat, having me – and as it seemed my wife as well – worried for her safety, when she jammed in her hatpin without paying much attention to where it went.

“We might have a happy ending after all. It’s not the footman, obviously.” Hattie laughed on our way back home. “Now she just needs to convince her sweetheart to marry her and all will be well.” 

“But we first need to save her from being ruined.” I reminded both of us, at which my wife sighed.

Still, this was far from being over. We just had eliminated one possibility and now it was for the next to be checked out. The question was just, what was to be next?

In this case, it would be a leisurely afternoon with Harriet and my pipe and thus mulling over the problem. The weather was abysmal at any rate and I felt alarmingly tired.

xxx

At having reached a conclusion the previous night, I had decided to first observe Miss Hannigan’s surroundings more thoroughly in the hopes of finding a connection between her and the impostor. Why had this woman chosen Miranda Hannigan to pose as? The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced, that she must be someone who knew the lady and also somebody who must be aware of the retired life she lived. How else could she be sure that the man she came to know as Everett Trenton would not come across the real Miss Hannigan?

Leaving Chiswick before dawn the next morning I went to Baker Street, made myself up as a loafer and left for Miranda Hannigan’s address, lingering around in the street. At last, I saw her footman. A tall man with a friendly countenance and dark hair, his face clean shaven and indeed clearly not the man Walters had drawn. 

Yesterday morning I had been almost sure that Miranda Hannigan’s lover was behind it all, but apparently, I was wrong. What was it I was missing? Sitting down on one of the low garden walls I lit my old and sufficiently shabby looking clay pipe and pondered on the case again. Luckily enough it was not raining for a change, but the wind was still bitterly cold. At least my wife had it warm and snug and took another day of well-earned rest. The thought of Harriet brought a content smile to my face. 

Wandering around the street for another hour and a half in the hopes of finding a clue, I was about to leave when my efforts paid off. A familiar looking carriage turned into the street and stopped at one of the houses a little further down. Hurrying closer I saw first a man emerge and then a woman, seemingly arguing about one thing or another as both gesticulated wildly and their voices were raised. It took me some self-restraint not to stare too conspicuously at them, but there was little doubt. It was the couple Walters had drawn. He a bit on the chubby side, round-faced, jug-eared and pouting and she as plain as they come but in a rich and stylish dress, an elaborate hat, and with a ridiculous looking sixteen-inch waist, making her appear as if she would snap in half at any moment. 

Attaching myself to the back of their carriage I ended up duly at the stables to the back of the houses and in making myself useful, attempted to gather some information. 

So far, so good. By the time I had groomed the two horses and finished mucking out their boxes I was sufficiently informed about the pair. What I now needed, was a bath, a shave, dry clothes, my pipe and two ounces of tobacco. - Oh, and most importantly, a kiss from my wife.

It was then, that I remembered, that today was Saturday and that the Watson’s would arrive in three hours time. My wife would have my guts if I did not hurry now!


	30. Pecunia non olet - Part 10

Pecunia non olet – Part 10

Harriet:

I was frantically waiting for Sherlock as it was already past two and he had said he would be back around lunch. I dearly hoped he meant lunch today…

When the doorbell rang, Martha went to open and for a second I thought Miranda Hannigan was visiting again, till I realised it was the maids raised voice and not Miss Hannigan’s. 

“What do you think you are doing here, coming to the front door?” she scolded.

“I just...” I heard a raspy male voice speak, almost pleadingly. The man sounded tired and somewhat familiar.

“You just? You just! No, we don’t have work for you here. You’ll have to go and try your luck elsewhere.” 

“I just forgot my...” he tried again, but once more was cut short impatiently.

“And I have just told you, we do not need your services. Now, go!”

“Martha, what is going on?” I enquired from the back of the house, annoyed by this interruption as I was busy preparing a few last things before setting off towards Baker Street in the hopes of finding my husband there.

Sighing dramatically she answered me: “There is a chap out here wanting to come in, though I have told him we have no use for him here.”

Wiping my hands on my apron I briskly walked towards the front door and was met with the sight of a shabby looking man in his work clothes, who could do with a good wash. His face was almost unrecognisable underneath all the grime, but his bright grey eyes though sparkled in suppressed amusement. It was then I recognised my husband and stifling a laugh I came to his rescue.

“Martha, I actually have a use for this man, believe it or not. As it is, I have already been waiting for him. Come in Sherlock.”

“Finally!” he sighed, shivering in his damp clothing. “I forgot my keys at Baker Street.”

The girl stared at him in disbelieve, mouth open and a deep blush spreading over her face.

“Never mind, Martha,” Sherlock grinned, casting a glance at himself in the mirror. His face was encrusted with dirt and he was smelling strongly of horse manure. “I would not have recognised me either. I am relieved though, that at least my wife knew me.”

“I would recognise you anywhere,” I said offhand, even though with his acting skills I was a lot less sure than I let on.

“So, would you?” Sherlock Holmes sneezed then grinned and cupped my chin affectionately, “I’ll take up the challenge.”

“Have you also taken up the challenge to organise the keys for the Watson’s?” 

“It was not a challenge. I have them anyway. The good doctor left a set of spares with me years ago and as far as I am aware there has not been a change of locks – so all we need to do when we pick up Mrs Hudson at Baker Street, is to open my desk drawer and take them out.”

“You are impossible!” I sighed, shaking my head as I had seriously worried he might forget about something this profane.

“I know – impossibly dirty...” and bending over he kissed the tip of my nose. “And impossibly late. I’ll wash quickly and get changed and then you can dispose of me with whatever needs to be done still.”

xxx

We arrived about two hours before the couple was expected to return and while Mrs Hudson had prepared the food, I had taken care of a few other things, like fresh flowers, a new shrug and a decent blend of tea, as Mrs Hudson had told me, Mrs Watson liked a good cuppa.

We worked on busily, Sherlock bringing up the coal and lighting the fires, me closing the curtains, preparing a hot water bottle, arranging the flowers, laying the table and making a pot of tea, while Mrs Hudson reigned in the kitchen and had the dinner just about ready when a carriage stopped at the front door. 

Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and I slipped out through the back door just in time to hear the Watsons come into the house and give a surprised start. We then climbed the not quite low garden wall with the help of a rope ladder, my husband was wise enough to organise and hurried back to Baker Street with a giggle regarding us ladies and a sneeze regarding my spouse, all of us sure we had given our friends a pleasant surprise. - And the letter we received the next morning proved it. It was from Mary Watson and went as follows:

To the inhabitants of 221 B Baker Street – no, this is too formal, I suppose, it will not do! So I better cross it out and start again. - To the best friends in the world – there, this is better,  
I want to thank you dearly for all you have done for us. It was a lovely surprise upon coming home to actually find it a home. A warm comfortable place with tea and dinner waiting and the fires warming the house. I was dreading coming back only to find an empty shell, the grates cold and empty and then having to go out for dinner again, even though I am not quite ready to go out into society just yet. My condition still makes me feel uneasy in public. I dread the compassionate glances and hushed voices.  
But instead of my fears coming true, there seemed to have been a puck at work, taking care of all of those things that make one feel welcome and comfortable. John was as surprised as I was and just as happy.   
Please, you must all do us the honour of dining with us next Saturday, when John and I have settled again and the nurse and maid have picked up their work and we will be in a position to treat you and pay back some of the kindness you have shown to us today.  
I also have to admit, that I am very eager to meet Mrs Holmes at last, as I have heard so much about her.   
Yours sincerely  
Mary Watson

xxx

“Well, I am glad this went well,” I said when I had finished reading the epistle over breakfast. “What are we going to do about Miss Hannigan though?”

“I am sorry, I completely forgot to tell you about my adventures last night.” was Sherlock’s contrite answer as he blew his nose with his already crumpled handkerchief.

Last night we had gone to bed early and he had all but passed out, sporting a light temperature. This morning his cold seemed to have worsened considerably and I was sure that for the next few days I would have a patient at home who needed taking good care of. But I could not leave Miranda Hannigan to fend for herself either. She needed help also and desperately. 

“And you are sure that they are the ones responsible?” I gasped, as my poor darling had finished the tale of his adventures the previous day – which also seemed to account for his dismal state of health.

“Yes, at least for duping Walters.” 

“But why?” I was hard-pressed to believe, that two people seemingly well off, would do such a thing for a sport.

“No, of course, it is not for a sport. What was so special about the Trenton fortune?” 

“Of course, the jewels!” I gasped, resisting the urge to slap my palm against my forehead.

“It was not that they needed it, but they wanted them nonetheless. Many people have sold their soul to get at the one or other precious stone and Mr and Mrs Southerton are no exception.” he croaked sarcastically.

“But why use Miranda’s identity?”

“She is an heiress, without proper protection and lived only a bit down the road. Assuming her identity was convenient, especially as she rarely ventures out into society. As a matter of fact, you erred with the address – it was not Miss Hannigan’s Walters has written down, but the Southerton’s. They live in 77 Chepstow Villas and Miss Hannigan in 72 – But, if one does not write very neat, the house number could look quite similar, so you have a good excuse.” he teased. “I doubt the number had any significance though. It might just be one of life’s little ironies that they can look this similar if written in a haste.”

“Do you think they are now blackmailing Miranda?” I wondered.

“I am not sure, but I think not. They wanted the jewels, not more money. Money they have themselves in abundance. But someone does blackmail her and I as yet have to find out who.”

“It is odd, that after all, I find George Walters to be the lesser evil.” I sighed, feeling Sherlock’s temperature and decided that my husband would spend the rest of the day in bed. He was none too pleased.

xxx

Leaving my husband in bed, tucked in with a hot water bottle, I, on his request, made my way to see to our client. It was her footman who opened the door for me. He was a kind looking man, his eyes lively, though his face unassuming. He was as tall as my own husband, but not as lean and there was nothing really remarkable about him save his obviously gentle nature. But even as he opened and led me into the morning room, he seemed tense and it was explained a moment later when his mistress entered the room and flung her arms around me.

“Oh Mrs Holmes, I am so scared! I have received yet another letter this morning, containing the demands the blackmailer has. It is such a huge sum of money, how am I to pay it?”

Again she searched her pockets for the letter only to find it on her writing desk, where it lay crumpled right in the middle of it. Asking for the first letter I compared both and determined that they had the same author. That was at least something, even though at this point it did not help. At any rate, Miss Hannigan was right, the demand was outrageous and I wondered if the writer had any idea about monetary matters. Miranda Hannigan was wealthy and well situated, but she was not the heiress to an estate or a business. Her money was secured in an investment and what she drew per annum was a considerable sum, but not remotely in the realms of thirty thousand Pounds Sterling. It was the end of the year and after all the bills had been paid, I doubted that what was left to her disposal exceeded a couple of hundred Pounds. 

Stuffing the note back into its envelope I caught sight of something interesting. My husband had already told me more than once, that the envelope was as important than the letter itself and he had been fairly cross, when the first letter had been brought to him, without it. This time, the envelope was still there and it was lucky. 

In this instance, the writer had made the very same mistake that I had made regarding the address. It actually bore the addresses of the Southerton’s. There, decidedly more clearly written than Walters had done was the 77 instead of the correct 72. A good postman would not have been bothered by the mistake, delivering the letter to the right addressee anyway. So, who was to be blackmailed? Miranda Hannigan or Mrs Southerton posing as her? Or did it not matter to the blackguard?

Spending another twenty minutes drinking tea with the despaired woman I took a cab and went back to Baker Street, where, unsurprisingly, I found my husband out of bed and instead, sitting in front of the fire reading through the stack of newspapers which Tom seemed to have organised for him. 

Scurrying in with a freshly filled coal scuttle the boy looked at me apologetically, before putting the heavy thing down and greeting me properly.

“Thank you, Tom.” I smiled. “Could you perhaps get us a pot of tea as well?”

“Sure, madam,” he said eagerly and left quickly. 

“We’ll have to continue with his lessons...” I mumbled as I took off my coat and hat and hung them onto the peg next to the door.

“Yes, we really should.” was the croaked reply of my husband, who had lowered his paper when he had heard me speak to our page. “Have you found something, my dear?”

“I just might, Sherlock.”

Having taken the letter I pulled it out of my bag and showed it to him. 

“You are getting more observant by the day, Hattie. You are right, all of a sudden it seems that by accident the real Miss Hannigan has received a letter that was originally meant for the false Miss Hannigan. The sum is extraordinary as well, I have to agree. You would not have an idea what sum the lady has at her disposal annually?”

“I dare say it may well be triple to five times the sum I draw from what my father has left me to secure my future, which in her case will add up to around three- to five thousand Pounds each year.”

“That is a substantial sum indeed. But you are right, it hardly leaves her in the position to pay approximately ten times her annual income.”

As Tom had re-appeared with our tea, I poured each of us a cup and sat down opposite of him.

“Do you think George Walters could be the blackmailer after all?” I at long last broke the silence, which had unfurled.

“No, I don’t. My head is aching. I am the most useless creature when ill, I am afraid.” my sick husband sighed, while it was obvious that his fever, that he claimed had somewhat ceased while I was away, returned with a vengeance. He was decidedly burning up and I ushered him into bed once more, resolving, that if in an hour he was still as feverish and hot as he was right now, I would resort to cooling him and apply cold leg compresses.


	31. Pecunia non olet - Part 11

Pecunia non olet – Part 11

Harriet:  
The fever did not go down, as I had almost feared. And so cooling leg compresses it was. Settling down on a chair by his bedside I once more resorted to putting my thoughts on paper – a method that had always served me well. Occasionally I changed the wet towels and managed to get him to drink some water. 

Dinnertime came and with it a concerned looking Mrs Hudson, carrying a tray with a slice of pie for me and a cup of broth for my spouse. 

“How is he doing?” she enquired, putting the tray onto our bedside table.

“The temperature has not gone down, but at least it has not gone up higher, else I would have taken care of a cold bath for him already. But he is poorly.”

“If there is anything I can do to help...” she offered, concern gracing her round face.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” I smiled, taking her hand. “Thank you, for all you are doing for us.”

In response, the kind and yet formidable landlady smiled: “It is my pleasure, Mrs Holmes. Your husband can be trying, but he is a good soul and I am still overjoyed to see him happy at last. He has been lonely.”

Her motherly affection was touching and I wondered, what had become of my husband's natural parents. As yet he had not spoken of them, which made me believe they had died some time ago. I had met his brother and Sherlock had spoken of an uncle and I knew he went to boarding school with my brother. All this was certainly not much about one's partner in life. Oddly enough I had never as yet wondered if there were any more relations. - At which point I remembered, that we still needed to perform our visits to friends and family. Sherlock Holmes surely would be overjoyed… - I for my part was not looking forward to running around on pointless callings either, but I had a couple of relations who would not take it well if I did not introduce my husband to them. And then there was Cedric’s and Imogene’s New Years reception. At last this year I would not be partnered up randomly with one of my brother's peers, being the sister that had stayed on the shelf, so to say. Deciding I would ask my husband sometime soon about his childhood and family I tried to coax him into taking some of the soup, which with him more than half asleep was no easy feat. By the time I had managed, my pie was cold, but it tasted delicious nonetheless.

It was almost midnight, when the fever had gone down at last and tired I crawled into bed next to Sherlock, holding him as he normally did me and even though he was sleeping soundly by now, I thought I perceived a small smile as he snuggled up close to me.

xxx

I woke up the next morning to find Sherlock Holmes sitting on the edge of the bed, a glass of water in his hands which he drank greedily. 

“How do you feel?” I asked him softly.

“Better than yesterday. Believe it or not, I cannot remember much after you have tucked me into bed a second time.”

“You passed out with fever.” 

“Oh! I did not think I was that ill… - Seems I have misjudged my state of health. Have you found something when visiting Miss Hannigan? I think you said she had received another letter, but I cannot remember much of what you said after that.” he admitted, refilling his glass.

Repeating what I had already told him the previous day, I also added what I had concluded while sitting by his bedside: “I think we can safely assume, that not the actual Miranda Hannigan was the target for blackmail, but the false one. Now, Walters had spoken of the situation when he had first encountered the Southerton’s. As servants are rarely noticed – especially not if they are good at their job – I would think this might be where we will find our blackmailer. Though I as yet cannot rule out the Dawson’s either. They might have seen a chance to get out of their dire straights.”

“And the motive?” he enquired, a smile tucking at the corners of his mouth as he leaned back into the cushions, his arms snaking around me.

“Well, money, of course. A servants life is one of limited means and insecurity and as you have told me, the Dawson’s are barely scraping by. It is a despicable way to get at it, but then again, how did Vespasian put it? - Pecunia non olet. Money does not stink and true it is.” I answered at which he smiled even more broadly.

“I think this sums up the whole case perfectly, my love. First, we have George Walters trying to get at the Trenton jewels by posing as the heir. Then we have Mr and Mrs Southerton, both rich in their own right, but also after the famous jewels. So, in consequence, they pose as brother and sister, the latter assuming the convenient identity of yet another young and completely innocent lady, thus scamming the scammer, who knowing he cannot afford a scandal, goes along with it without question. And now the blackmailer. Your list of suspects is also sound. Let us think it over after breakfast. I need something to eat, I am famished.”

This was good news in the ears of a doctor. A patient with an appetite was a patient recovering his health. Had I recommended a bowl of porridge to him as a light meal, he refused point blank and Mrs, Hudson was wise enough to serve him the requested portion of bacon and scrambled eggs on toast.

“No one can get better on porridge.” Sherlock insisted, chewing happily on his meal.

“I hope you keep it down. You should not overexert your stomach.” I warned him, though gladder to see he was eating with real appetite, than with much concern.

“I won’t. I’ll eat slowly. - You are not the first doctor who tries to convince me of the benefits of a bowl of porridge when ill.”

“Needless to say, Doctor Watson was also unsuccessful...” I grinned.

“Yes, needless to say.”

“So, you said we would think over everything we have found out so far.” I, at last, began, when we had finished and relocated to the two armchairs in front of the fireplace once more, where I made sure he was sufficiently wrapped up and his feet as close to the fire as possible, without them being actually in it. 

“You know, I have never liked being ill, but with a caring wife I feel a lot less miserable than I usually did.”

“That is the idea, Sherlock. One cares for the other. You have looked after me when I was not feeling well and now it is my turn. Have I told you lately, that I love you?” 

“Even if you had, I like hearing it anyway.” was his smiling reply as he took hold of my hand. “So, you suspect either the Dawson’s or a servant. I dare say we can rule out the former. They have never met Everett Trenton, alias George Walters and consequently would not have known about the engagement. Of course one could assume they have lied, but considering the information on what they knew about the actual Everett Trenton, it is unlikely they did not challenge him as the rightful heir had they known about his youth. So that leaves the servants. It is of course not Miss Hannigan’s footman, or anybody else from her household, as they, even if they had acted on the letter their mistress has received from the police, would have addressed the letter correctly, as they could not have known about the Southerton’s and their actions.”

From his demeanour, I could see he by now knew, who was behind the blackmailing and yet, he would not be persuaded to simply tell me.

“You are so close to the solution, I want you to reach it by your own conclusions. So, now it is your turn to reason.” 

“Right. As I have already suggested, there could be a servant, who saw Walters and Southerton in their initially compromising situation. Then again, as they entered an engagement, this would not be socially ruining them.” And then indeed realisation hit me and I glanced up into the glittering eyes of Sherlock Holmes, who had watched me closely. 

“The letter spoke of them having slept with one another,” I continued. “From what you have said about Walters and from what he had said himself, I would not put it past them, to have actually done what was claimed in the note. And since there is now one particular maid left unemployed and cheated out of her wages due to Walters, she might now try and earn a bit of money by blackmailing her former employer's supposed fiancée.”

“Bravo!” he clapped his hands together in delight. “Mrs Holmes, you have solved the case.”

“Well, we know who it is, but not where to find her.”

“Look at the postmark.”

“Lisson Grove...” I gasped.

“It is the closest cesspool in proximity to Hampstead.”

“What was her name again?”

“Jennifer – called Jenny or Jen.”

“How does she look?” 

“Commonly pretty, in her early twenties, quite buxom, golden blond hair – vacant expression.” was his dry summary. 

“Good, let’s add out of money, desperate and ruthless to that.” I continued his description. “I’ll find her. Can I leave you for a few hours? I’ll be back before tea.”

My husband stared at me in surprise, then stammered: “Are you sure you want to go?”

“Sherlock, I know Lisson Grove well and I also know enough people there to be able to ask around without raising much suspicion. - I can always claim she has a medical condition of the sort that needs looking after. I wanted to pick up my correspondence anyway and check who is available to help out in December to put together a rota – which at any rate will cost me the whole of tomorrow and I might as well be prepared.” was my calm reply as I got up and dressed myself appropriately.

Making sure he was comfortable I left Sherlock reading a book, a carafe of water and some biscuits within reach, wrapped up in his blanket and the fire blazing.

xxx

Sherlock:

It was once again an odd feeling to see my wife leave for Lisson Grove. Having seen her there, speaking with those women a decent woman normally never came into contact with, I was fairly put at ease that she would not be in any danger from the people living there. Still, she was on a mission to find a woman who was a blackmailer – a criminal. Was this really wise? I tried to concentrate but failed. Had it not been for Mrs Hudson, who seemed to have promised Harriet to keep me indoors at all cost, I would have gone after her. But the landlady, at last, was kind enough to agree to send Tom after her. I described the way and off he went, wearing once again his shabby clothes so he would not be too conspicuous amongst all the poverty he had only recently escaped. His face had lit up eagerly as I asked him for his help and I wondered if, perhaps, I was raising another Jack Wiggins.

At some point during my wait for the return of my wife, I must have fallen asleep once more. I woke up when a gentle hand caressed my cheek and a soft kiss followed. Smiling I opened my eyes to glance up into the sparkling grey-blue ones of Harriet, almost overwhelmed by the affection mirrored in them. 

“How are you, my dear?” she asked feeling my forehead for any signs of a rising temperature.

“Better than last night, but not quite as good as this morning,” I admitted, shivering slightly. 

“I’ll just quickly organise a hot water bottle for you and a cup of tea – or would you rather have some broth?”

“Tea, please.”

As Harriet slipped from the room, I leaned back with a gratified sigh, pulling the blanket closer around me. I was about to doze off again when I heard the distinct sound of the doorbell. Sighing again, this time in exasperation, I tried to appear alert, though I felt anything but. At the same time, I hoped I looked presentable enough – and even more that my wife with the aid of my experienced landlady would send away any visitors. Then again I was sure, if it were Miss Hannigan, neither of those good ladies would have the heart to turn her away. 

It was not Miranda Hannigan, but neither was the visitor turned away. A moment later Harriet re-appeared, hot water bottle in hand and a downtrodden girl in tow. Jennifer the maid did look in a terrible state as she stepped out of the shadow, and I felt almost something akin to pity for her. 

“Sit,” Harriet ordered her, briskly, but not unfriendly, and the young woman chose to sit on the most uncomfortable chair the room had to offer – the one I usually used as a side table for my chemical experiments.

Waiting demurely for what was to follow, I realised the girl had not the slightest idea why she was here. Her eyes darted from me to Harriet and back in a questioning way and there was little left of her boisterous behaviour from a week ago. She clearly did not recognise me, which might turn out to be convenient. Well with my hair dishevelled and a stubbly chin as well as glassy eyes, this was not much astonishing at any rate. And with the light illuminating me from behind, my face was in the shadows, giving her little chance to see my features. Casting a quick glance at the window I realised it had begun to rain again.

“So,” Harriet started, appearing much as if she were conducting an interview. “Your name is Jennifer Miller?”

A quiet yes was the answer.

“I heard you have worked for a gentleman before? Then you will be familiar with what a man requires.”

There was a slight touch of sarcasm in Hattie’s voice. The girl only nodded, uncertain where this interview was going. Looking at her more closely I found she actually looked quite wretched.

“You see, my brother” here Harriet pointed at me, “needs looking after. He has suffered from a fever lately and is only recovering slowly.”

I stared at my wife aghast but was hard pressed at her wry expression to be annoyed, which in consequence made it difficult not to laugh at her surprisingly sly charade. Again the girl just nodded, keeping her eyes firmly down. 

“His betrothed has little time for him. - I have always told you she is not the right one for you, William! But as it is, Miss Hannigan has not been here since you have fallen ill, has she now?”

At the mention of the name, the maids head had shot up in alarm, while Harriet carried on with acting the annoyed and overly protective sister. - A part she was naturally quite good at, I noted, certain she would be just as protective a mother.

“But no, no word is to be said against dear Miranda, is it – and I tell you, I would not trust her from here to Regents Park. - Oh, is something the matter?”

Jennifer Miller had jumped up from her chair and darted towards the door, trying to yank it open. It would not budge however and my wife held up the key.

“Oh no, Miss Miller, not so quick. I think you should meet with the actual Miss Hannigan and I dare say that is her arriving on our doorstep just now.”

A carriage halted downstairs and a moment later there was another ring of the doorbell. Harriet unlocked the living room door to indeed reveal the real Miranda Hannigan, accompanied by her footman, who did not look as if he would have a single word spoken against his lady. Good man!

“May I introduce you to Miss Miranda Hannigan, Miss Miller?” 

The girl stared at the newcomer in confusion, before finding her voice again: “But this is not Miss Hannigan...”

“It is not the woman, who was to marry your employer, that is correct, but alas, this is Miss Miranda Hannigan.”

“Employer? Ha!” Jenny spat, her eyes shooting daggers. “He is a prick with a dirty mind and insistent hands, leaving me without my pay and without a reference.”

“If I remember it correctly you rather liked his advances...” I mused.

“If you remember – oh, the sleuth who came looking for the jewels. Was that you, who had anything to do with having Trenton, or whatever his real name is, arrested?”

“Yes.”

“Arsehole!”

“Oh, I love a good compliment – and if a criminal calls me an arsehole, I know I have done something right,” I answered suavely, registering that my head was starting to hurt and the shivers were back for good.

“I am not a criminal. What was I supposed to do, hey? I have no place to stay, no money – nothing.”

“There are several places, you could have asked for help.”

“I have no references, lady!” 

“I have registered it, Miss Miller, but there are places were one in your situation can apply and ladies who would have taken you in for a few weeks and then would have been willing to give you a good reference. - If you deserved one that is. So, the question is, would you deserve one?”

Jennifer Miller chose not to answer my wife’s question, which in itself was answer enough.

“Well enough. But then you should stop blaming everybody around you and instead work on improving yourself, else you will end up in the gutter this or the other way.” Harriet stated matter of factly, however not unkindly. “Come, sit down – you, too, Miranda. We will find a solution, I am sure.”

The girl just laughed bitterly but did as she was bid. Miranda Hannigan looked at the girl and I could see nothing but pity in her friendly features, and it was she, who spoke first.

“On my way here, Charles and I came to an understanding.” she blushed when both Harriet and I started to smile broadly. “Oh no, not such an understanding. An understanding, that I could do with another scullery maid, as mine has just this afternoon quit her job to take care of her younger siblings – her mother has died of typhus not a month ago and she’s got a couple of younger siblings that need looking after. So, Miss Miller, I could use a scullery maid and I would offer you the vacant position. I know it is not the rank you held before and it will pay a lot less, but I would be willing to assist you as long as my assistance is needed.”

Speechless Jennifer Miller sat on her chair, till at last tears were flowing down her face, being unfamiliar with so much kindness.

“There is just one condition I have,” Miss Hannigan added. “I will not have you behave indecently, and I will expect an apology from you.”

To avoid any more of the ensuing sentimental scene, I asked Charles the footman, to help me into bed. - I still had a hidden agenda concerning him and this was a good moment to act upon it.

xxx

“Why on earth did you refuse to marry this woman? - She told us she has asked you and she loves you dearly and I can see you love her as well. So?” I asked without further ado as soon as the bedroom door had closed behind us and the sobbing and soothing were no longer heard.

“Mr Holmes, she is far above me. I grew up on the streets, I have no recollection of my parents, nothing to offer, how could I...”

“You have something to offer. Something she values higher than anything – your love. Don’t underestimate its worth. Money she can get anywhere, status, too. But true love is a rarity. Don’t let it slip away.”

Coughing I slipped into bed, while he still stood there contemplating. Then with a smile, he bowed his head, thanked me and left. 

The next day the invitation to Miranda Hannigan’s wedding arrived, written on a plain sheet of writing paper.

To finish this most interesting case at last it is to be said, that Miss Miller was not quite able to change her ways and so one morning she left and was never heard of again. But perhaps for the sake of Miss Hannigan and her other maids, this was not so bad after all. 

George Walters on the other hand, who was only fined and then released from prison a week after the conclusion of this case saw his chance and decided to at last better himself and finding some employment as a clerk, managed to turn his life around.

The Southerton’s, to my great dismay, as they had the least excuse to offer for their deeds, simply got away, without any consequences. But, as the criminal law will have it, in their case there was no victim deceived and hence no crime committed. The bigamy had only been attempted, but as extramarital intercourse is, fortunately for many a man and woman, not a criminal offence, but only a moral one, this also did not serve to get at them. A bit of well-placed rumour from my wife, her aunt and Mrs Willis though had them move within the next four months to a place unknown to us. As yet at least, as I would not be surprised, if we came across them some time again, presumably sooner than later.


	32. Truth or Dare - Part 1

Truth or dare – Part 1

Harriet:

It had been a busy and tiring day at St. Anne’s, but fortunately not a very long one, as especially before Christmas, many a person remembered their charitable duties and thus we had more helping hands than usual. And so on my way back, as it was not yet three in the afternoon and Sherlock had been called up north on a case six days ago and had not yet returned, I decided to drop by the Watson’s to visit Mary. We had met often over the last few weeks since her return, and I had come to like her very much, as Sherlock had predicted, and we got on well. Over this relatively short period of time, we had spent many afternoons together preparing for the season, knitting, embroidering, sewing, and chatting all the while over a steaming hot cup of tea. This way we had managed to get almost all our presents done and gotten to know each other well enough to consider one another friends. I have to admit, it also served the double purpose of helping Mrs Watson to heal. I knew about what had happened, was present, when the man who had killed little Henry was caught and thus she did not need to restrain herself but could talk freely. And it did seem to help. Both her husband and herself were growing closer again and the shadow that had darkened their relationship slowly but surely lifted.

Knocking on the Watson’s front door, it was opened promptly by Mary’s nurse, as if I had been expected. Mrs Spencer was a prim and stout woman of around fifty, industrious, straight forward and warm-hearted without any hint of insincerity or false pity. I had known her for a while and while she had worked at St. Anne’s for some months, as her former employer had died after a long illness, I was glad I could be of service in suggesting her for the vacancy and sad a the same time to have lost one of my best nurses. 

I was led into the living room by her and was greeted not only with Mary Watson’s, but also her husband's sight, both sitting together, reading and laughing. It was such a lovely picture it immediately lifted my mood, while I thought of excusing myself straight after entering to leave for home. But neither would have any of it. As soon as Mrs Watson had glanced up and seen me, she smiled and beckoned me to come into the room. I did but left my outerwear on to show it would be a short visit today, only unbuttoning the coat, so I would not overheat in the comfortably warm and snug sitting room. 

“Harriet!” Mary exclaimed, smiling contently, “I am glad you have come. We have just been thinking about what to give to your husband for Christmas, but while we have many hilarious ideas, we have not managed to find anything that is really suitable. Please help us out, will you?”

“Oh dear!” I exclaimed, having been faced with the same kind of trouble till I resorted to simply asking my spouse if there was anything, in particular, he would want as a gift from me. 

His answer had been, that he would like something I had made for him myself and that he could have on him, like an embroidered handkerchief or a scarf, or a pair of thick woollen socks. - This was at least the part I could tell people openly, the part I could hardly tell anybody was, that he had added with one of his incredibly endearing, cheekily boyish grins, that he also wished to make love to me under a mistletoe, hung up over our bed on Christmas morning. When I had asked him, why the mistletoe, he had smiled even broader and told me: “Because I am a true romantic.” At which we both had started laughing. Sherlock really was not much of a romantic, but he had his charms and he was a good husband, reliable friend and a surprisingly ardent lover. There was really nothing for me to wish for. If somebody would have asked me, how I would describe the perfect husband, I would have described Mr Sherlock Holmes. My Mr Sherlock Holmes.

With a slight smile on my face, I took the offered seat and began thinking over various ideas I had had myself, but which I then had discarded, as I thought them to be too impersonal a present for a wife to give to her husband. With his simple request, I was more than happy and it was needless to say, I put all my love into what I was making for him. But still, what could I suggest my husband would like? Many a thing of course, but what was suitable to recommend in this instance? At long last, I remembered Sherlock’s new desk which now stood in my study, cramming it a little, and which as yet was not fitted out and could do with a decent desk pad or any other stationary item.

“I knew you would have an idea, Harriet,” Mary smiled turning around with her wheelchair moving with surprising agility towards the sideboard and offering me a cup of tea, which I declined.

“I told you, John, a wife would know what to give to her husband.” she carried on, teasing her own spouse with an ease which showed just how close they were growing again. 

John Watson huffed with feigned indignation then bend down to kiss her temple with a loving smile, a smile that warmed my own heart for its sincere depth and affection. 

After asking, if there was anything I could do for them and whether they would like to join us for Christmas dinner, I was on my way back to Baker Street. They had agreed to come and I was overjoyed. Never one for the big events my brother and sister in law were hosting, this joy was not completely bare of selfishness on my part, as it afforded Sherlock and me a good excuse not to go down to Lewes and be paraded around. I knew Cedric was glad for me to be married so happily, but he also was glad to have me married for the sole reason, that a married sister at twenty-eight, even though she worked as a doctor, appeared so much more respectable and not so much like a stubborn old spinster having her own way.

We would not get out of Cedric’s and Imogene’s New Years reception, though, and in my opinion, one such function was more than enough within the span of three weeks. Which reminded me, that I still needed to take care of acquiring a dinner dress for the occasion, as my sister in law liked to maintain a certain style. Admittedly, her events were well planned and also fairly pleasant as long as I was not forced to make too much small talk, at which I was notoriously awkward.

All this went through my head as I wandered towards home. It was getting dark already even though it was just nearing four and I felt the temperatures drop even further. I was halfway up Baker Street, when the first snowflakes fell, soft and light like downy feathers. Stretching out my hand, I caught one and examined it, as it sat there on my black leather glove, its intricate pattern clearly visible. I was so lost in my musings, that I missed the carriage coming to a halt next to me and the man stepping up behind me, softly leaning towards me and glancing over my shoulder.

“They are magical things, are they not?” my husband's calm voice whispered into my ear. I could literally hear him smile and my heart skipped a beat. 

“I had hoped you would return today,” I whispered back, leaning into the embrace as he wrapped his arms around me, enjoying the sensation of having him close to me again. 

My bed had felt so empty and cold and so incredibly large. Frequently I had gone to bed on my side of it and had woken up on his the next morning, head deeply buried in his pillow as if to find comfort in his lingering scent of tobacco, aftershave and his own musky smell. But it was his warmth I had missed the most, his arms wrapped around me and his breath tickling the back of my neck. - Even his slight occasional snore. Now he was back and I looked forward to snuggling up to him as soon as was possible, of kissing his lips, caressing him, holding him close, being one with him.

“Cabby, could you drop off my luggage at 221B? And take the ladies bag with you as well. Oh, and tell the maid to have a pot of tea ready for us, but that we might be a while yet.” Sherlock ordered, taking my Gladstone bag from me, and handing it to the round-faced man who had waited patiently, seemingly not caring about the cold.

“And now?” I enquired, curiously as we stood there in the increasing gloom, snowflakes swirling around us. 

“Now we take a stroll through the park, my love. Just you and me, watching the ground being covered with snow and steal a bit of time.” he smiled, his eyes sparkling and upon raising an eyebrow at him, he explained further: “London snow is only ever lovely for the first few hours, before it is covered in a layer of coal dust and grime.”

“And there I was thinking to have found a romantic streak in you after all...” 

“You have, just don’t tell anybody.” Sherlock laughed as we wandered off towards Regents Park.

“They would think me a blatant liar at any rate.” 

xxx

The park lay quietly before us and hardly a soul had ventured out as we had, to enjoy the pleasures of freshly fallen snow. By now the ground was lightly covered in a dusting of sparkling crystals as the light of the gas lamps reflected off of it. The atmosphere was as serene as could be in the middle of London, it was soothing and comforting and beautiful. 

“Have I promised too much?” my husband asked when we had strolled around for almost a quarter of an hour without the need of speaking a word, our arms entwined and our hearts full of joy at being in each others company after almost a week apart.

“No. It is lovely.”

“You have no idea, how often I have walked like this all on my own, longing for somebody to share this with me, Harriet. Only when I was away for those few days did I realise, how lonely I was without you and how lost I would be, should anything ever happen to you.”

“Then I will take great care of myself because I never want you to be unhappy,” I replied, touched by the tenderness he displayed, wondering how he had been before we had met, and how he was when I was not around. “But Sherlock, the same applies to me. I have missed you dearly. Even before I have known you, I have missed you, I just did not know it. Please promise me, to always be careful.”

He did, of course, and once more we fell silent. This comfortable silence, when there is simply no need for words. 

We were on our way back, when we spotted another couple, just as engrossed in their own presence as we were. But as their dog ran towards us, we eventually had to take notice. With a wagging tail, the young spaniel jumped up, his snowy paws leaving wet prints on my skirt as it glanced up at me expectantly. 

“Fido, no!” the man cried out, leaving his charming companion and hurried towards us to drag the animal away by its collar. 

“There is no harm done, Geoffrey,” Sherlock said smoothly, a mischievous grin creeping across his face, reaching to his eyes, twinkling with amusement.

At hearing my husbands voice and the familiar address, the young man looked up in astonishment, his eyes darting from Sherlock’s to my face and back.

“Oh, I am sorry, Sherlock, I had taken you for two lovers...” he trailed off, then, looking slightly sheepish added: “Which of course you are. I tend to forget you’ve gotten married.”

“Harriet, this is my cousin thrice removed, Doctor Geoffrey Verner, who shares a practice with Doctor Watson, as you might remember, and his fiancée Miss Agnes Deveraux; Miss Deveraux, Geoffrey this is my wife Harriet.” 

“Pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs. Holmes” he smiled and I thought I saw a slight family resemblance. 

“We should have called on you sooner, but we have not quite gotten around to do our visits, I am afraid.”

Now Geoffrey Verner grinned: “Oh, and I would say it is a lot of explaining you have to do there, too. I myself thought Doctor Watson was trying to be funny when he returned from Winchester telling me Sherlock’s bachelorhood had been in danger and was now lost to matrimony… - We had joked about it only a few days earlier, when he had told me, about the case you worked on and that your client was a stunning young woman, a doctor at that, with a great deal of intelligence. - I see he was not overstating things. But I would not have believed it, had Watson not spoken of both of you so very often and how you helped with Mrs Watson and everything.”

“It was nothing really.” Sherlock rejected the hidden compliment, stepping aside to let a man wrapped up in a muffler and bowler hat pass our group. He seemed to be the only creature aside from us to be out and about, but unlike us, he clearly did not enjoy the fresh snow as he hurried towards the street.

“But this change in situation, of course, makes it a bit more easy for my own wedding, as I don’t need to find a woman willing to act as your dinner partner, dear cousin.” Geoffrey Verner carried on, undeterred.

“I never said I would accept the invitation.” was his cousin's elusive answer. I knew Sherlock did not like parties all that much either. 

Now it was Geoffrey Verner’s turn to smile mischievously: “Oh you will. You are too curious not to come and there will be a few interesting people to meet. But I don’t want to give away too much. So no false excuses, I will see you at my wedding, Sherlock, Mrs Holmes.” 

Miss Deveraux’s and my eyes met and neither of us could suppress a smirk as we saw the disgruntled expression on Sherlock Holmes’ face that did not really fit with the amusement clearly showing in his eyes. 

Agnes Deveraux was a fair creature with astonishingly dark eyes for her complexion and a lovely heart-shaped face. There was a decidedly humorous streak around her mouth and she had something dreamy about her. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, before parting and while Doctor Verner escorted his betrothed back to her families house, their dog scampering through the snow once more, wagging its tail with much enthusiasm, Sherlock and I walked back to our own home. 

“I have not realised, how cold it is,” I remarked as we neared the streets again, shivering slightly. 

“Don’t worry, my dear, I am intending to warm you up, very soon,” he assured me, grinning and a gleam to his eyes that told me very vividly what he had in mind once we were home.

We were just about to step out of the park gate when from some distance, we heard the startling cry of a man and the more piercing scream of a woman along a dog barking frantically.

“Help! We need help!” 

“Good Lord! What is going on?” I gasped, gripping my husbands arm a bit more tightly than I had done before.

“I fear we’ll find out soon enough.” was Sherlock’s dry response as a police constable hastened past us, almost knocking us off our feet, obviously having been alerted by the distressed cries.

Hurriedly, forgetting about the cold, we followed the policeman back up the path we had just taken and then turned right into another one which led towards a little bridge crossing a narrow pond little less than a quarter of a mile from where we had met Doctor Verner and Miss Deveraux. It was on this bridge that both of them now stood, their gaze fixed on something in the water, the latter clearly in hysterics. Their dog only seemed perfectly content, running up and down the bank as if he had the time of his life.

We could see the policeman reach the pair and after seeing what had arrested their attention he lifted his whistle to his lips and a shrill sound pierced the otherwise quiet and serene expanse of the park.


	33. Truth or Dare - Part 2

Truth or dare - Part 2

Harriet:

The snow whirled around us more heavily by the minute as we at last, both a little out of breath, reached the small bridge and the group of people now gathered there. Glancing down into the water I saw the face of a young woman, her long blond hair moving gently in the almost still depths underneath the branches of an old weeping willow, where it became increasingly entangled. Her eyes stared back at us unseeingly.

“Is there nothing we can do to help her?” Agnes Deveraux asked silently, refusing to accept that what she saw was only the shell of what had once been a beautiful girl. 

“No.” was her fiancé's equally quiet reply, holding her hand.

Almost devotional silence fell among us, neither able to drag away their eyes from this almost mystical picture before us. With her white dress, the dead woman almost looked like a fairy. I knew my husband took everything in, assessing the situation more thoroughly than either of the others did, but it was only when two more constables arrived on the scene and one left again straight away to fetch an inspector that we also began to stir.

“I wonder how long she has been in the water.” I mused, as one of the policemen attempted to usher us away.

“Not long. She is not yet frozen stiff, look at how her arms are floating as well as her dress. It might just be mere minutes.” was Sherlock’s muttered reply. “It is a shame the snowfall is this heavy, it is covering all traces of what might have happened here.”

It was this remark that made one of the constable's stop, looking at the man before him more thoroughly and at last, he recognised Sherlock Holmes.

“Ah, good you are here, Sir,” he said, a relieved smile playing on his lips. “But this is clearly not a place for the ladies now, is it?”

“I agree to the extent that Mr Verner should escort Miss Deveraux back to her house. But this lady here might be of great use.” 

This remark was met with a sceptically raised eyebrow but was not further questioned.

“So I take it you won’t mind if I had a look around?” Sherlock carried on as soon as his cousin had led away Miss Deveraux.

“I cannot say really, as it will be up to the inspector taking over this case, but I dare say he should be all right with it.”

Sherlock began examining the scene as good as was possible given the weather had all but destroyed every possible trace by now. Even our own tracks in the snow were hardly visible any more and the ones left by the two lovers filled up just as quickly, after a few minutes being nothing but mere outlines.

“I wonder how it is, that the water is not frozen over,” I remarked, watching my husband crawl around on his knees, examining the bannisters on either side of the narrow bridge. 

“Because there is a spring here which feeds the pond.” was his off hand answer as he seemed to concentrate on one spot in particular.

“Ah, this is where she went in.” he, at last, announced, just as from afar a small group of people came towards us.

“You think she has killed herself?” the constable enquired, looking at the small piece of torn white fabric Sherlock had found stuck to the underside of one of the wooden beams.

“I did not say that. As long as the body is not examined we can hardly determine whether she has committed suicide or was thrown in there, whether she was alive when thrown in or whether she was already dead.” was my spouses reprimand as he got up again to greet none other than Inspector Hopkins.

“Why am I not surprised to find the two of you here?” the young inspector laughed as he took my outstretched hand.

“Because you know us too well.” was my dry reply at which he laughed even more.

“So, what have we got here?” 

Hopkins, almost as thoroughly as my husband had done, assessed the situation, which took only a few minutes as the weather became increasingly uncomfortable, before asking the men accompanying him to pull the body ashore and having it transported to the next morgue as in this weather an examination on the spot would be quite pointless. With instructions to drag the water, he turned towards us again, his expression an open question.

xxx

Sherlock:

“I take it, you would like to pursue this case?” Harriet asked as the body of the young woman was lifted onto a stretcher to be carried away.

“Yes. If it is one and if you don’t mind. I would like to take a quick look at the body to see if I can find a few more clues as to why and how she ended up in the water, upsetting Miss Deveraux.”

My wife smiled wryly at that, before taking my hand and pulling me along: “Well, then let us go, my dear.”

It was much like my Harriet to be curious and by now I had found out that she appreciated a good mystery and a bit of brain work almost as much as I did myself.

“I thought you were cold?” I teased as we trudged along, by now looking like two snowmen, the snow and frost clinging to our coats, gloves and hats. 

“I have a husband who promised to warm me up later on and I will hold him to his word, you know.” she grinned. 

From behind us, I could hear Hopkins chuckle, which kept me from replying that I had a bit more in mind than simply warming her up.

It was fortunate that the morgue was around the corner, just on the other side of Regents Park and within less than ten minutes we arrived there. It was a gloomy brick building at the back of the Royal College of Physicians and at this time of year with so many respiratory diseases due to the unhealthy sooty air in the city fairly occupied with bodies waiting to be either inspected or buried. Once more it took a bit of explaining that my wife was actually one of their lot and would not faint at the sight of a corpse – or in this case corpses. Taking off our outerwear we hung them up in the warden's office so they could dry – or at least attempt to dry, and then followed young Hopkins into the dissecting room which was adjacent to the mortuary.

“She looks as if she is wearing a débutante’s dress,” Harriet remarked as she walked over to the slab. “But the ceremonies have not started yet.”

I looked at my wife in surprise, having forgotten that she had gone through an official introduction into society some years back herself. She certainly had a point. The young woman’s dress certainly looked like an evening gown, now discoloured from the water, but once clearly of an ivory shade. She did not wear gloves however and no jewellery. Still, the latter might be explained by somebody having robbed her. That she did not wear any embellishments did not mean she had not before she had gone into the water.

“She must have been at a fitting.” Harriet suddenly carried on, examining the hem of the skirt, which sported several pins, while I had taken a look at the woman’s face and neck, where I could make out the faintest imprint of two hands. “And the seam on the bodice has been let out. Odd...” 

“Meaning?” I enquired, pulling up her eyelids and found what I had anticipated. 

“I am not sure yet, she might have gained a bit of weight since she had her measures taken, but normally a woman would take great care not to and rather lace herself in more tightly. Unless she could not do so, of course.”

“She was strangled,” I informed Harriet, pointing at the marks on the bodies neck and the petechial bleeding in her eyes, inner eyelids and inside of her lips.

“Is there any water in her lungs?” 

“I don’t think so, but you might want to take a look.”

Here Hopkins interrupted: “We will certainly know once an autopsy has been conducted.”

“Yes,” Harriet replied, “but you could just as well press down hard on her chest. If there is enough water to have her drown, it will be pressed upwards and into her mouth cavity.”

“All right. Then let’s see, shall we?” 

Both Hopkins and I compressed the young woman’s thorax while Harriet to get a more accurate result had stuck her fore and middle finger into her mouth to feel for any liquid. There was no water in her lungs. 

“So she must have been dead before she was thrown into the pond then.” the inspector concluded.

Harriet and I only nodded, but by the looks of it, something had caught her attention.

“Sherlock, she is still warm.” she at last spoke.

“What do you mean?”

“She is still warm inside, she cannot have been in there more than a couple of minutes. I mean, she even has not begun to stiffen. How come we have not heard or seen anything?” 

I startled, looking from the body on the slab to my wife and back, for the moment lost for an answer, before remembering the setting once again. The bridge from the direction we had taken had been hidden by a small group of trees. Only on our way back had we been able to see it. Sadly my wife nodded at my statement, carrying on with her task.

But if there had been any traces on the girl, they had been washed away. Only a few dead leaves which must have been lying at the bottom of the pool had caught in her very long hair, which even surpassed Harriet’s waist long locks. No wonder she had become entangled in the branches of the low hanging willow within such a short time. 

Slowly we began undressing her, examining every item thoroughly in the hopes of finding something which could lead us on. It was lucky that the dressmaker had put a label into the back of the dress, giving us the first lead. As I read out the name of the salon aloud my wife whistled from between her teeth.

“So one thing is clear, she must have a wealthy background if she can afford a dress made by Madame Clairemont. At any rate, this is excellent silk and the pearls at the hem here are actual ones, not wax imitations.”

“Then certainly somebody must be missing her.” Hopkins sighed with relief in the assumption his work would not be overly complicated by having to find out who the victim was. 

“Unless the somebody who would miss her is the one who killed her,” Hattie interjected thoughtfully. 

Indeed, murder rarely was a matter of randomly killing somebody, let alone a seemingly sheltered young woman, I thought to myself before I suggested to Hopkins, who stood by, taking notes: “But at any rate, this Madame Clairemont should be able to tell us, who she is. You might want to start with questioning her if no-one reports this young lady missing.”

Together Harriet and I took off her undergarments when once more something caught my eye. The corset was not just tied at the back but had two more laces on either side of the front, which was not so much closed with the usual busk but plain hooks and eyelets.

“This is an odd corset, I don’t think I have ever seen anything like it.” I could not help remarking.

“I have, and it confirms my suspicion.” Biting her lip, my wife looked up at me. “I think we might have found a motive.”

Pressing her hand down the woman’s stomach with a grim expression Harriet muttered to herself, then nodded, before turning pale. 

“Good God, it is still alive!”

“What?” both Hopkins and I cried out simultaneously. 

“Is there no scalpel?” my wife cried frantically.

I glanced around but could not see one.

“Then give me your penknife. It does not matter much anyway. - Quickly!”

I did as she bid me. Harriet all but snatched it from my hands before she carefully placed a cut just underneath the dead woman’s navel. What followed, I will never forget. The situation became positively unreal as Harriet cut deeper and a little fist appeared from between the severed flesh. Next to me, Hopkins grabbed for my shoulder to steady himself as my wife freed the baby from its confinement, cutting off the umbilical cord after having tied it off with a piece string from the young woman’s drawers. The child indeed lived, and once Harriet had cleared out its mouth it began crying. A weak cry at first, but a cry nonetheless. As if in a trance I reached for a towel and holding it out my wife placed the baby into my arms, a tear running down her cheek as she glanced up and into my eyes showing that despite her clear-sightedness she was greatly shaken.

“It is full term, or at least close to, by the looks of it,” she whispered softly, caressing the little girls head.

“But how can this be?” I stared at the child in my arms, its little body soiled with the blood from her dead mother, a white greasy substance smearing her head and body and settling between her tiny fingers like rancid butter.

Carefully I wrapped the towel around her, pulling her close to my body so she would not get too cold in this chilly environment.

“I have no idea, Sherlock. But it is close to Christmas, perhaps this is a little miracle.” Hattie smiled, sniffing slightly.

Yes, a miracle this was. Never in my life had I come across something like this before. 

“But at any rate, she cannot have been dead long if the child she carried is still alive, I would say, we are talking mere minutes. Then again, it may as well be that the cold water has saved her from dying along with her mother, after all, there are reports of people nearly drowning, who have been under water for up to half an hour and who survived, given it was cold enough. Sure they suffered from hypothermia, but they recovered fully.” she, at last, carried on contemplatively, wiping her bloody hands on another towel.

Hopkins, who till now had been quiet at last was able to open his mouth again: “But how could she hide such a secret?”

“When a woman laces herself so tightly as she seems to have done, despite her maternity corset, there is foremost the risk of a miscarriage – which might be exactly what she had wanted to achieve, seeing that she is not wearing a wedding ring. But sometimes the baby is just pressed into such a position, that it is barely noticeable, which seems to have happened here. From the original seams of her gown, we might be able to deduce how small she had been at the first measuring. But before she fell pregnant, she might just as well have had a lot smaller waist than she has now, even though she is still very thin. It does not take forever to make a dress, so in comparison to how slender she initially was, she actually might have gained quite a bit of weight.”

Both Hopkins and I nodded to indicate we understood what she had told us. 

Glancing down at the squirming bundle in my arms I could not help asking: “And what are we going to do with her now?” 

“I could take her for a few days until we have found a more permanent solution. Unless you have any objections, that is.” 

I smiled, of course, my wife would offer to do so and I had no objection.


	34. Truth or Dare - Part 3

Truth or dare – Part 3

Harriet:

Wrapping the babe tightly into a borrowed blanket we made our way back to Baker Street, at last, a little more than two hours after we had sat out on our stroll. But it was not to stay, but to inform Mrs Hudson about the change of situation and to pick up Tom to go down to Chiswick where I had everything we would need to care for a newborn. It did cause a bit of a stir and our landlady managed to persuade us, to at least take a sip of tea and wrap up the child a bit better and perhaps feed her with some milk. 

When we left 221 B Baker Street it was with a heavily laden basket of food which only needed some warming up and a pitcher of fresh milk. Well, milk as fresh as is to be had in London anyway. As the journey to my house took us decidedly longer than anticipated, the acceptance of the landladies eager hospitality proved to be a wise decision. 

“I wonder why Mrs Hudson had a babies gown at hand.” I mused, looking at the sleeping child in my arms. It was so tiny yet perfect in its own right and as usual, my instincts had taken over as soon as I was entrusted with its care.

“Me, too. I presume it is a hint for us, my dear.” 

“Oh, really? How very subtle. But I think it has more to do with charity work actually.” I laughed, speaking from experience, while Tom, who at the time of our explaining had packed his things, was now all curiosity and tried desperately to sit still and keep quiet.

“Come on boy, spill it,” at last my husband smirked.

“Is that your baby?” our little page asked, staring at the little bundle in awe and wonder.

“No. She is the daughter of a young woman who has died this afternoon and of whom we do not yet know who she is.”

“That is sad.” was Tom’s heartfelt reply and Sherlock affectionately ruffled his hair. 

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you think you can find out who she was?” our page enquired further. 

“There is a good chance we might. But for now, it is time to eat and then go to bed.”

“If you don’t find out, will you keep the baby?”

“We shall see, Tommy.”

Tired and worn we had, at last, made it home, the romance of the afternoon a distant shadow and all our plans for the evening overthrown. While Tom immediately sat out to fulfil his duties, namely light the fires, Sherlock and I carried the cot, which only a few weeks ago we had carried up into the attic, back down and into our bedroom, waking Martha in the process. My maid, being a country girl, was an early riser but usually went to bed just as early if she could. She had obviously cleaned the house thoroughly and even attempted to clear the footpath to our front door, covering the slippery surface with some ash. It was nice to see that I could rely on her, even when she did not expect us.

Contrary to the hubbub the little girl had created with Mrs Hudson and Jane, Martha, did not bat an eyelid but instead went down and into the laundry to fetch a stack of nappies and a change of clothes for the little one. When we had nothing better to do, which of late was but rarely, the two of us would produce endless amounts of nappies, socks, dresses, caps and so forth to be taken to St. Anne’s every once in a while. Now, this strategy paid off as we had everything at hand we needed for our little visitor, including the bottle I had fed Louise with. 

Warming up our dinner upon my return into the back sitting-room I was met with a sight that melted my heart. There in my rocking chair sat my husband, baby on his shoulder, his eyes drooping as the long day he had caught up on him. Just when I started to swoon over the pair of them, the little miss decided it was time for her delayed burp. A small cascade of milk erupting from her pouty little mouth, soiling Sherlock’s waistcoat and shirt, breaking the magic and making me laugh instead. Opening his eyes again my husband looked down at the mess, patted her back and with a wry smile remarked dryly: “Well done, my lass!” before taking the napkin I offered and wiping himself as clean as was possible under these circumstances.

xxx

We had barely finished our breakfast the next morning when Hopkins arrived on our doorstep.

“I am sorry to disturb you this early, but I have news on the body from last evening. When I returned to the Yard I, of course, enquired if there were any missing persons recorded, and there was one that fit perfectly.”

Both Sherlock and I looked at him expectantly.

“The young lady is or rather was, a Miss Davina Adams, of Kingston. Her father identified her already, though I have to admit I was not quite sure how I was to tell him he now is a grandfather...”

I nodded sympathetically while he took the offered cup of coffee and bend over the laundry basket with the sleeping baby in it.

“She looks healthy considering the circumstances of her birth.” the young inspector remarked.

“Yes, she is very healthy.” I agreed, suppressing a yawn. 

The little girl had indeed shown a healthy appetite, having woken me up four times during the night, while my husband, bless him, slept through all of it. How men managed to sleep through a babies crying was beyond me, while Sherlock had, when I had complained about it earlier this morning, answered nonchalantly that it must have something to do with motherly instincts. I suppressed the wish to throttle him and grudgingly I had to admit, that with that he might even be right. Still, this did nothing to substitute my lack of sleep and the thus resulting grumpiness of mine. Our conversation over breakfast had been rather one-sided as all I managed were monosyllables as I struggled to wake up with the help of a cup of strong coffee. I normally was all right with lack of sleep if the little sleep I had was not interrupted several times. When I took on Louise, the first week had been just as trying, before I, at last, had settled into a routine. Hopefully, this time around it would be the same if not quicker– if the little darling had to stay for any length of time, that was. And perhaps it would discourage my husband to start a family right away, giving us a few more months of blissful togetherness. Though looking at him, I had every reason to doubt it. 

“As said,” Hopkins continued, sitting down, “the dead woman is a Miss Davina Adams. She was indeed supposed to be at a fitting together with her aunt. It was this aunt who reported her missing, by the way. While Miss Adams was being fitted, she, the aunt, had just gone to choose some fabric for a dress for herself and when she returned a short while later, her niece was gone.”

“There must have been other people around, surely. What did they say?” Sherlock enquired.

“I am about to find out, that is also why I am here, as I was sure you would like to join me. Of course, I asked the aunt, a Mrs Theodora Wolseley, but she was too shaken to give me anything of value. The father is a forbidding person, very stern, but he clearly loved his daughter. As he had not been there, he could give me no information whatsoever, just that his daughter had never given him any trouble and was, in general, a quiet and shy girl.”

“Well, she had clearly gotten herself into trouble,” my husband pointed at the now squirming child and I, with an exasperated sigh, called for Martha to ready yet another bottle. 

“As a matter of fact, fathers rarely know, what their daughters are up to.” I could not help remarking snappishly, as I picked up the infant.

“I take it you speak out of experience,” Sherlock asked with his eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips.

“Of course. By the way, brothers are no better and in regards to husbands I still have to find out.” I smiled overly sweet, at which my husband was wise enough not to say anything further, sensing my irritation.

Carrying on I added: “So, if anyone knew about her condition, my guess would be on a woman, either a relative or friend. I’d start with the aunt. - The seamstress might have noticed, too of course and perhaps said something.”

“So, where do we start our investigation?” Hopkins, with a frown on his young face, asked.

“I would say the dressmakers Miss Adams has visited shortly before we found her. That is from where she disappeared, never to be seen alive again. Something must have happened there for her to run out in a half-finished ball gown without a coat or proper shoes.” Sherlock mused for an instant before continuing: “Unless of course she had intended to meet with somebody and realised she was late for the meeting. I remember stepping aside for a man walking past me hurriedly in the rough direction of where the body was found, though I have to admit I did not pay much attention at the time and could not say if he turned into the path that leads up to the bridge.”

“Can you describe him?” Hopkins looked hopefully at my husband.

“He wore a long coat of dark colour, something like a brownish black – decent quality, but nothing remarkable. A bowler hat, and a grey muffler which covered his face. He did not have a walking stick with him and I would take him to be fairly young by the way he carried himself. He limped slightly as if he had a stiff knee, but nothing too obvious. I could not see much of his face, but he wore glasses, which were fogging up. His hight I would estimate at about 5’9, rather sturdy, but more like a sportsman than a glutton.”

“This could apply to thousands of men in London.”

“Yes. And as we cannot even be certain if he has anything to do with the matter, for the moment the best chance to find out something is at Madame Clairemont’s.”

xxx

The men left and I sent Tom with them, carrying a message for the head nurse at St. Anne’s, telling her that I would be available for an emergency, but otherwise stay at home, dearly hoping I would not be called in. But considering the surplus of staff at the moment I consoled myself that it would not be very likely I should be needed. And at any rate, it reminded me, that in the long run, I would have to make a decision whether I wanted to carry on as head doctor at St. Anne’s, stop working there altogether or just work there on occasion on a voluntary basis.

Taking the baby upstairs with me again as soon as I had fed it and changed the nappy, I crawled back into bed to sleep for another hour or two, if I had the chance. While I did so, it occurred to me, that while she was staying with us, we might just as well give the baby a name. I settled for Clara. Not very creative, admittedly, but since her mother must have been at Madame Clairemont just before her untimely death, it might be just as well I made a slight change to the first part of this family name.

xxx

Sherlock: 

“I really have no idea how to break the news to Miss Adams’ father. About the child I mean. When you meet him, you’ll know what I am on about. He is fierce and he certainly loved his daughter fiercely.”

This remark brought a disturbing thought to the surface, which I preferred to keep to myself at present. But as it was, the baby must have come from somewhere and situations like these were not unheard of, even in the best of circles. 

Trying not to jump to any conclusions before I had any solid information, I leaned back in the carriage and thought about my wife and how good it was to be back home. Even though I had hoped for something different last evening than to have us take care of a newborn child. Still, my mind had strayed in a fairly similar direction – only nine months prior to the event of holding a baby. 

The cab stopped at an elegant shop in close vicinity to Regents Park, its windows presenting some examples of the latest ladies fashion from walking costumes to evening gowns. It was a colourful display and some of the more elaborate gowns I thought to be a bit over the top, clearly nothing Harriet would wear – but Anne Fraser. 

We entered into a spacious reception area with some comfortable looking settee’s on one side and a large mahogany counter in one corner, behind which a young woman kept the books and appointments. When we entered we were faced with several ladies of varying age waiting for their fitting, while the receptionist seemed to have expected us.

“You must be Mr Tilmore to pick up your wife’s...”

Hopkins interrupted her: “No, we are actually here about Miss Adams’ dress, so to speak.”

“Miss Adams’?” she looked confused, then realisation seemed to dawn on her as she recalled the events of the previous afternoon. “Just one moment, please.”

Retreating to the back of the shop she re-appeared a moment later with a young man in tow.

“Millicent said you are here about a particular dress if you please.”

With a quick assessment, the man had recognised us as being police and now escorted us to the back of the salon.

“Is Miss Adams all right?” he enquired as soon as we were out of earshot of the many fashionable ladies, true concern showing on his open face.

Hopkins looked slightly sheepish at me. It seemed he still had not gotten used to delivering bad news. With an inward sigh, I answered in the negative.

“I am afraid young Miss Adams was found dead last evening.”

“Good God! What happened? She left so quickly she was gone before I realised it. I mean, I did not realise she had left the shop.”

“You were fitting her?”

“Yes, Andrew Clairemont, at your service.”

“You don’t quite look like a madame...” I smiled, taking in the pincushion on his wrist, the measuring tape around his neck, the thimble on his watch chain and the pair of scissors peeping out from his right-hand coat pocket.

“Madame Clairemont is my mother, but since she has lost most of her eyesight I have taken over her business. It is never very wise to change the name of a well-running business and thus my shop is still known as Madame Clairemont’s. Apart from that, it seems more suitable for our establishment being a ladies dressmaker.” he explained shortly, with a small grin on his features, which almost immediately turned grave again. “But alas, I am shocked about Miss Adams. She was here so I could adjust her gown for her upcoming coming out ball.”

So Harriet had been right, the girl had been a débutante. A rather special one at that, considering her condition.

“Was there any apparent reason, why she might have bolted from your salon?” Hopkins, at last, joined the conversation.

“Not that I am aware of. Young Miss Fairchild arrived for her fitting and as both ladies had gone to school together and were close friends, they decided to share a fitting room. They were giggling quite happily when I left to see quickly to another customer and when I re-entered Miss Adams turned pale and ran out. I thought it might have something to do with her -” 

Clairemont hesitated, obviously not sure how much he should give away. But from his behaviour, it was clear he referred to her pregnancy.

“You mean you thought it had something to do with the child she was expecting?”

He only nodded.

“How did you know about the baby?”

“I am a tailor, I have let out many dresses to accommodate a growing midsection. She cannot have been far along, but I needed to let out the waist twice already and it was a close call again this time around. But she would not let me.”

“It must have been a fairly unusual situation for a débutante, must it not?”

Andrew Clairemont smiled lopsidedly: “She was not the first to be in this position, you would be surprised.”

Admittedly we were. 

“You said you thought it might be because of the child, was there any indication she felt unwell because of it?” I carried on, remembering my conversation with Harriet a few weeks prior.

“Not while she was here. But standing for any length of time can be trying in her situation. - My wife had quite some trouble throughout her pregnancy and felt often sick. It took me a while till I even realised she had gone not just to visit the lavatory and it was only after a good ten minutes that I really started to worry.”

“And you cannot think of anything, that might have triggered her reaction?”

The young tailor shook his head, looking apologetic. 

“When exactly was the appointment and at what time did Miss Adams run out of the door?”

“Her appointment was at four, Miss Fairchild’s about half an hour later, but I remember her being a bit late. Well, I guess the snow was accountable for that. - And her brother, who clearly did not want to escort her here. Understandably. It must have been around a quarter to five then, when she left, give or take a few minutes. – She did not even take her coat.”

“How could she leave the salon without anybody seeing her leave? I cannot imagine the front room was any less occupied.”

Clairemont pointed at a door at the end of the corridor in which we stood. “This door leads to the lavatory, but it also gives access to a back door, which she must have taken.”

This explained how everyone could think of her having gone no further than the bathroom.

“Are her clothes still here?”

“Yes, if you would like to see them.”

“We will take them if you do not mind.”

“Not under these circumstances.” was the quiet reply as the man walked over to a shelf and pulled out a bundle of neatly folded clothes.

“Could you give me the address of this Miss – Fairchild, was it?” Hopkins pulled out his notebook and Andrew Clairemont gladly supplied us with it.

“If there is anything I can do to help you any further, please let me know.”

Escorting us out one more question had to be asked: “You would not know who might be the father of the child, Mr Clairemont?”

“No, she never even mentioned a man other than her father and she never spoke of her condition. I do know, that she was not engaged to be married, but she was pretty, so she might have had the one or other suitor. Her aunt may know. Miss Adams’ mother died when she was very young as I understand it and Mrs Wolseley, having no children of her own, after her own husband's death some years ago, took to care for her niece. - At least that is what I could gather from what the told me or spoke to one another.”


	35. Truth or Dare - Part 4

Truth or dare – Part 4

Sherlock:

“So, it seems we cannot help it, but visit Mr Adams as his sister is staying with him. Hopefully, she has recovered from the shock by now.” Hopkins said as we stepped out and into the slippery street, the Regents Park only a little down the road.

“I actually would like to try and retrace her steps,” I remarked, turning towards the park. “After that, we can go and speak to Mrs Wolseley.”

“But we know where she was found and...”

Interrupting him impatiently I explained: “Of course we know, but I want a more accurate idea how long she would have needed to get to where she was found.” 

Davina Adams had been found shortly after five, which left us with a fairly short time span. We walked swiftly, as Clairemont had stated she had basically run from the room and if something had startled her, then it was unlikely she would have commenced with any less haste than before. Taking into consideration, that we wore more practical shoes than the slippers Miss Adams had worn we could soon establish, that she had needed at least ten minutes to reach the spot – if she indeed had walked there on her own. It was of course still possible, that she had been killed before she was brought there and yet there were several places, where the killer could have discarded of her long before he had reached the bridge. The path was slippery and carrying a body is a tedious task at the best of times. No, it was unlikely then, that she had met her death elsewhere. I was all but certain she had met her end where she had been found.

A theory began to form in the back of my mind, now it needed establishing.

“I think we can visit the Adams’ now. I have seen everything there was to be seen.” I told Hopkins as we stood on the small bridge, looking about us.

“And to what conclusion did you come,” he inquired curiously.

“None.”

xxx

As in this weather, it was more convenient we took the underground to Waterloo Station and from there a train to Kingston, reaching our destination a good hour later. The house in which the family lived was an imposing one, built from timber and brick, parts of it covered by ivy. The homestead was surrounded by a large park-like garden, which was covered in a layer of pristine looking snow. Money certainly was not an issue with the Adams’. Knocking on the front door, it was opened by a very proper looking housemaid with a placid face and red-rimmed eyes.

“Sirs?” she curtsied.

“We are here on behalf of Miss Adams’ death. Could we please come in?” Hopkins asked her mildly. “We would like to speak to Mrs Wolseley and to Mr Adams, if we may.”

“Oh, of course. Mr Adams said police might come and ask a few questions. He is in the drawing room. If you will follow me.”

She led the way through the large entrance hall. A hall befitting a country manor with its wood panels, stone tiled floor, the family portraits and even an ancient looking Arras-tapestry on the wall opposite the entrance door. Opening a small door next to the staircase, we walked down a wide yet dreary corridor with a well-trodden carpet, which I assumed was meant to keep the draught at bay. It only worked to an extent. 

Opening a sturdy blackened oak door, the girl stepped in to announce us and from within we could hear the dictatorial voice of a man. Stepping inside the comfortable room, I was surprised to see an array of oriental weapons and a set of ceremonial Hindu masks. By the way, the man carried himself it was clear he once was a soldier. He did look stern and forbidding indeed, but looking at him more closely, I could detect the grief hidden behind this mask of sternness. 

“Mr Adams.” Hopkins bowed. “This is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He was present when your daughter was found and as he is...”

“I have heard of him, of course.” Adams cut him short. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”

His voice seemed devoid of all emotion. But knowing an officers training, I was certain that it was rather due to this than to him being unfeeling. 

We both sat down on the sofa across from the man. Jacob Adams was in his late forties, tall and broad-shouldered and his golden blond hair, which his daughter had inherited was beginning to grizzle. 

“So, you have found my Davie? Why were you looking for her?”

First I was startled, then it dawned on me that due to my profession he had assumed I had found her purposely.

“I have not been looking for your daughter and technically I did not find her, it was my cousin and his betrothed, who did. My wife and I had just come across them a couple of minutes earlier, taking a walk in the park and a few moments after we had parted we heard a cry and hastened towards it, thus finding what had unsettled them.”

“Which was my daughter floating in the water, I suppose. I was informed she had been thrown into a pond. Is that correct?”

“It is, Mr Adams.” With a side glance at my young companion, I took a deep breath to break the news. “Mr Adams, there is more, I am afraid.”

“How can there possibly be more? I have just lost my daughter, my only child.” his incredulousness was the first show of anything akin to an emotion he displayed.

“Your daughter was expecting a child,” I spoke quietly yet decidedly as there was no use beating about the bush.

“Excuse me?” Jacob Adams looked taken aback, but not angry. It was as if the words I had just said had not yet sunken in.

“Your daughter was pregnant.”

“But that is impossible!” he cried, getting up from his armchair pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, his composure clearly shaken at last. “How could she have been with child?”

“She was very pretty.” I reasoned. “Perhaps one of her admirers managed to...”

“She hardly ever went out and if it was in company. Davina was a shy girl, always has been. Even at school, she had few friends and mostly kept to herself – if it had not been for Leonor Fairchild who is a most lively young lady. Had I not insisted, she would have been more than glad to not come out into society officially. She dreaded it. I should never have forced her.”

For a moment he looked quite human before once more the emotionless mask hid his true feelings.

“There is more...” I carried on after a few minutes of contemplative silence.

“More?!” the man cried out disbelieving.

“The baby is alive. You have a little granddaughter.”

Adams gaped at us, glanced from one to the other before toppling over, close to unconsciousness.

“This reaction I did not expect,” Hopkins admitted as we pulled the man into his chair trying to get some brandy into him. “I would have thought he would be raging and storming, but not that he would faint.”

“Remember how Watson reacted after his son’s death.” I reminded him, thinking of how his wife had thought him to be completely unfeeling until I had pointed out that this was the way the doctor dealt with the pain.

“Where is she? My granddaughter, I mean.” Jacob Adams whispered, opening his eyes. “How is she? Will she live? How is all of this even possible?”

Burying his face in his hands we let him sob for a moment until he had managed to calm himself sufficiently. 

‘Not so devoid of emotion after all’ I thought to myself, patting his shoulder reassuringly. He was so utterly taken, that he was not even embarrassed by this display of weakness.

“She is with my wife and very well – she will live. Would you like for me to send a message to my wife so she can bring the child over?”

“No. No, I would rather come with you than to drag your wife and a newborn baby out into this freezing weather. And we have nothing prepared anyway.” Slowly he recovered some of his composure, showing surprising practicality in the face of such news. “I will have to make some arrangements so I think I should be able to take her off your hands within the course of tomorrow if that will be all right.”

“Yes, of course.” I agreed, knowing that Harriet, despite her lack of sleep and her consequent irritation would have no objections, at the same time vowing to give her a hand.

“Then we should leave. It looks like more snow is going to come down in an hour or two.”

“Sir, I would like to speak to Mrs Wolseley first, before we leave.” Hopkins tried to stop him. 

“Then do so, Inspector. Mr Holmes?”

“While I understand your desire to see your granddaughter, I have to admit I would like to join Inspector Hopkins. There are a few questions to which I am most curious to have an answer. It should take but an hour, if that. I could give you our address and you could go ahead if you like.”

He gratefully accepted the offer.

xxx

The same maid which had led us into the house now brought us to a very feminine looking boudoir leading directly off the entrance hall. Unlike her brother, Mrs Wolseley was anything but composed, tears brimming her eyes, lips quivering and shoulders drooping, which was the more pitiable as she was clearly a woman of strong character. But the shock sat deep and the guilt was only natural, even though nonsensical. 

“How on earth shall I live with this grief. Had I not gone to look at some fabric to choose for a new dress for myself, Davina would still be alive.” she cried, as soon as we had greeted her, barely able to introduce ourselves.

We let her carry on like this for a while in the hopes she would mention something or another that might be interesting yet might be hidden in the subconscious and it paid off.

“If only Miss Fairchild could have stopped her.” she carried on already calming herself. “But she was just as surprised as the rest of us. It was minutes till we realised she had gone from the shop – without so much as taking her coat. Oh, why would she run out of there just like that?”

“As I understood from Mr Clairemont you all thought she had gone to the bathroom. How was it you found that she had not done so?” 

“When she did not return after several minutes Miss Leonor went looking for her and found it was unoccupied bit Davina still missing. We then searched the salon, but to no avail. Davina was gone.”

“And you have no idea why she might have left in such a hurry?” I dug deeper.

Theodora Wolseley shook her elegant head, tears once again threatening to fall freely.

“Could something have startled her?”

Another shake of the head was all the answer we got.

“Is there a possibility, that she was due to meet with someone?”

“No. - Well, she meant to meet with Miss Fairchild, but aside from that she had not many friends and certainly none in that part of town.”

“And enemies?”

“Sir, she was eighteen years old and had been sheltered for all her life. How could she have any enemies?”

This, of course, was a good question. One I could not answer without using too many ifs to sound credible in any way.

“Mrs Wolseley, did you know that your niece was expecting?” I gently carried on.

Even though she did choose not to answer this question, her lowered gaze and the flush to her otherwise pale cheeks gave her away.

“Did she confide in you, or did you find out accidentally?” I carried on.

“A bit of both, I presume.” was her whispered reply.

She broke out in tears once more, sobbing violently. 

“It was so horrible. Davina was such a good girl and then this had to happen to her! And now she is dead. She should have had such a promising life – full of happiness and there she was born just for tragedy after all.”

I startled and so did Hopkins.

“What do you mean?” the inspector enquired. “Do you mean to say, she did not conceive the child willingly?”

Nodding, Theodora Wolseley pressed her handkerchief to her lips to calm herself.

“Yes, sir, that is what I mean. She came home one evening last March, crying, looking a complete mess, injured – she looked so horrible. So incredibly vulnerable, so lost and broken. From what she told me I could discern what must have happened as she hardly knew the words for it. I promised not to tell her father, as she was sure he would be very disappointed in her for having lost her innocence. Oh, how I wished she had told him or allowed me to do so. But her trust had been so violated already, I could not but keep quiet. Then she mentioned she had ceased to be unwell and I panicked.”

“You resorted to tight lacing in the hopes of killing the babe, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but it grew and grew, it was no use. It was as if the child wanted to spite her even further. Well, at least that problem is solved, I suppose. She will never be a mother, now. Never be reminded of the wrong that had been done to her.” a hysterical laugh escaped her lips. 

Hopkins and I looked at one another, lost for words. How to tell this woman, that the child she had tried to kill for months, had been born into this world? Was not only living but well while its mother was not.

“Did she know the father of her child?”

“No. She said they were like shadows she could not discern.”

“They?” Good grief! Sometimes mankind made me wonder if it deserved to be called superior to any animal, even the vilest. 

Theodora Wolseley just sobbed into her handkerchief, nodding.

There, of course, was another alternative to this and I had to ask: “There could not be the possibility that your niece has met with a young man and had herself persuaded by him to…?”

“Of course not!” was her decided reply. Well, what did I expect? Even if it had been a possibility, her aunt and confidante would have hardly owed to it being so. 

“Why are you asking all these questions about her violation when it is her murder you are investigating?” she asked testily when she had, at last, managed to keep her tears at bay.

At least to that I could give her an answer: “Your niece had been young and sheltered, yet she had become the victim of crime twice within the last year – or rather nine months. As yet we have to consider every possibility as to what might have led to her death. It is a common misconception that people get killed randomly by strangers, so we are only trying to make a connection and seek a motive. Her condition is such a motive thus it interests us.”

“Of course, I am sorry.” She did not sound sorry in the least. “But I really cannot help you. She was such a gentle creature and I really do not know why somebody might have wanted to kill her. Davina was very shy, my brother insisted on her being introduced, but I know she would have rather not.”

“How was it possible for your niece to be raped? As you said it yourself, she was not the kind of young woman to go out all by herself.”

“It was the week after Easter. There was a charity bazaar down at church she had promised to attend. I was ill at the time and so she left together with Miss Fairchild. We were assured that they would be escorted back home by Mrs Thomas, one of our neighbours a little down the road. But as it was, Mrs Thomas was called home early as her youngest had fallen ill. The two girls went home on their own as it is a walk of barely ten minutes. As it was getting late, they parted at Albert Road and as she did not want to be late, Davina took a short cut through the park as we do frequently. It is the shortest way for anyone and regularly frequented. It is there she met her assailants. That is all I know, after all, it was better to not talk about such an unpleasant thing – it is just too upsetting, is it not?” 

Harriet would have greatly disagreed with her, but as it was, there was nothing more to be learned from the aunt and at long last, we left her to her tears.  
“Thank you for your time, Mrs Wolseley. If you remember anything more, please let me know.” Hopkins said, getting up, looking troubled. 

We had almost closed the door when an idea struck me: “Is there perhaps a diary?” 

“She had a journal when she was at school. I gave it to her because she felt so lonely there. She might have continued writing one after she had returned home, I am not sure.”

“May I have a look around her room?”


	36. Truth or Dare - Part 5

Truth or dare – Part 5

Sherlock:

Leading us upstairs we entered a light room so unlike the rest of the house. It was elegant and comfortable if not a bit frilly with the overuse of lace and tucks and paper flowers and the bright pink satin curtains. And yet it did befit the young girl whose room this had been, a girl that in her death had looked more like a fairy than a woman of flesh and blood.

There, on the large four poster bed, a battered rag doll lay lovingly leaned against the pillows and looking out of place in its well-loved shabbiness. This single item was more touching than anything that could have been said about Davina Adams – a young woman and yet still a child. Searching the room I quickly found her old diaries, but a diary containing such a secret would surely be kept somewhere more secretive. Had she still been at school, I would have wagered that she had hidden it underneath her mattress, but with a maid making the bed, this was not a good spot to hide anything. I at last found it wedged underneath the lowest drawer of her chest of drawers. It was nothing more than a thin booklet with a blue paper backing. 

“May we take it with us for the moment? It will be returned to you, I promise.” I enquired, flipping through its pages. It was almost completely filled with Miss Adams’ innermost thoughts, many pages blotted with tears, some all but obliterated by them. 

“If it will help.” the aunt answered, gently caressing the doll, both of them looking so incredibly forlorn. 

“It might,” I told her, pocketing the item, realising that there was nothing more to be found out here.

On our way downstairs Hopkins enquired how they would have dealt with the baby once the child had been born.

“I have acquired the address of a most reliable lady who takes care of young infants, living in Reading. A couple of weeks ago I have visited Mrs Dyer to talk over the particulars and she assured me that the child would be well looked after. She is a very friendly woman and seems to be a capable guardian.”

Raising an eyebrow I wondered what Harriet would say to that. My wife was fighting ceaselessly against the practice of baby farming trying for better conditions of the women finding themselves in similar positions than Miss Adams had, though knowing that with the number of unwanted pregnancies this would be a long and strenuous struggle.

xxx

After a small description of the way, we took the route Miss Adams must have taken on that fateful evening in March we walked over to the Fairchild’s house – a house of similar dimensions than the Adams’, but more modern and with a smaller garden. 

It was quite unfortunate that we should arrive in the middle of the Christmas preparations, as the housemaids busily hung up holly, ivy and mistletoe while in the corner of the entrance hall a large Christmas tree was already decked. Mrs Fairchild, who after a wait of almost twenty minutes decided to greet us, just as she realised we would not just go away again, was a haughty woman of a rather dark complexion. 

“You are aware that we are quite busy?” she greeted us ungraciously.

“So are we, Mrs Fairchild.” I could not help retorting. “And we will not keep you from your preparations any more than necessary, but as it is, we would like to speak to your daughter.”

“What would you want of my daughter?”

“Only ask her a few questions, madam. - Regarding Miss Adams.”

“Oh? Is something the matter with Miss Davina?” her tone of voice did not show the slightest hint of concern.

“She is dead.”

This, however, had an almost immediate effect, as Mrs Fairchild all but fell into one of the armchairs conveniently scattered all around the stuffy room. 

“Oh dear! I had no idea. - But I still don’t understand, why you would want to speak to my daughter.”

“Miss Adams did not die a natural death, I am afraid.” Hopkins at last opened his mouth.

“No, this cannot be!” another voice sounded from the door as a young girl about the same age then Davina Adams entered the room. 

Miss Leonor glanced from one to the other, eyes wide with disbelief.

“But I am afraid it is, Miss Fairchild,” Hopkins spoke softly.

“What happened to her?”

“She was strangled and thrown into a pond in Regents Park.”

“You know, the last time I saw her was yesterday when she suddenly ran from our shared dressing room?”

“Yes, we have been informed of that, which is why we are here.”

“Why did you not tell me so?” Mrs Fairchild now enquired, looking at last equally shocked.

“When was I supposed to do so, mother? When Lattimer and I returned, you and father had already gone out and this morning you were so busy for tonight’s party, you hardly spoke a word to me.”

There was no accusation in her tone, as she said this matter of factly.

“Miss Fairchild, you would not know why your friend left so suddenly and without informing anybody?”

The young woman shook her head sadly.

“No. She turned pale and ran out. We all thought she might have felt sick, and only when she did not return after several minutes I went after her to see if I could be of any use. But the lavatory was empty and Davina was nowhere to be found.”

“Mr Clairemont said she might have taken the back door. Did you know there was one?”

“Yes, in summer it is regularly left open to air the place.” Mrs Fairchild interjected. “I think everybody visiting there frequently knows about it.”

“Miss Fairchild, do you remember an evening in March this year, when you went to a charity bazaar together with Miss Adams?”

For a moment Leonor Fairchild looked confused, then nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, I believe so. Yet it is so long ago I cannot recall any particulars. Why?”

“Did Miss Adams act any different after that day?”

“She was severely ill for a couple of weeks and I did not see her and yes, after that she seemed more withdrawn than ever before. You must understand she was very shy and has never been very open with anyone. Still, she was my best friend – presumably because of it.” she smiled sadly.

“Why do I knot know about this?” Mrs Fairchild dug deeper.

“I am sure I did tell you, but anyway, she recovered and there was no need to fuss about it, was there?” her daughter retorted.

“You walked home alone that evening?”

“Yes, Mrs Thomas needed to return home soon after we had arrived as one of her children got ill. - It is suffering from croup and wanted its mother, so she left. It is but a short walk and it was not very late in the day, so Davina and I walked home by ourselves.”

“Parting at Albert Road?”

“Yes.”

“Last evening you were accompanied by your brother?”

“I was.”

“Could we speak to him also?”

“He is at his club, escaping the preparations.” the mother informed us, getting up from her seat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to oversee my staff. As unfortunate a business, this is, we still have a party to attend to.”

“Will you excuse me from attending?” her daughter asked quietly, eyes pleading.

For a moment it seemed her mother would force her to partake, but then agreed that if she felt unable to do so, she would be excused.

xxx

The club was just down the road and through the small park once again, well within walking distance. It was an honourable establishment like so many others of its kind. We applied to the butler and were led into a visitors room, where we waited till young Lattimer Fairchild felt obliged to appear. It seemed the Fairchild family was well practised in keeping everybody waiting.

Lattimer Fairchild looked very much like his mother and bore the same haughty expression, yet, there was something defiant about him and I thought to myself that deep within there was a fairly insecure young man who was desperate to keep up his façade. It was barely two in the afternoon, but still he seemed to have enjoyed several glasses of the one or other alcoholic drink. His breath smelled strongly of brandy.

“Yes?” he enquired, sounding almost bored.

“We have come to ask you about Miss Adams.” Hopkins began the conversation.

The young man looked startled then taken aback.

“What have I to do with Miss Adams?”

“She disappeared and was found dead last evening.”

“Has she now? And pray, what has this to do with me? I did not even know the lady.”

As so often, those who should have the best manners displayed their worst. He slumped down on a settee lighting a cigarette stuck into a tip, looking more like a spoiled child than a young man of some status and consequence.

“She was killed shortly after she left Madame Clairemont’s. You were there, accompanying your sister, so perhaps you have seen something?”

“No.”

“You did not see her running out?”

“No.”

“Where were you waiting? For your sister I mean?”

“What do I know? I was lingering around in the hallway for some time till I decided that I had enough and stepped outside.”

“In this weather?”

“I could hardly smoke inside.”

“As strongly as it was snowing I doubt you could have done so out of doors, Mr Fairchild.” I reasoned, remembering how the snow had whirled around us with increasing density as we had walked. 

“So? Have you ever heard of porches? They are quite handy when one wants to smoke out of doors in the rain.”

Calling the details of the short street to mind, I refrained from pointing out that none of the houses there had a porch roof. 

“Is there anything else you would like to bother me with?” he asked, dropping the butt of his cigarette into an empty glass on the side table next to him.

“I think we have a pretty good picture of what happened last afternoon, thank you, Mr Fairchild,” I answered evasively. 

There were many more questions that came to mind, but none he could answer, but rather some for me to ponder on. 

Outside the weather, as Jacob Adams had predicted had become viler and I invited Hopkins to join me for a cup of tea at home, which he declined.

xxx

The house was almost completely dark save for the light in the hallway that shone through the stained glass window of the front door. I unlocked the door and followed the voice of Tom who seemed to do some reading practice. And for sure, there he sat, Harriet opposite of him, knitting, while the baby was fast asleep once more in its laundry basket next to her.

Looking up my wife smiled at me then turned serious.

“Mr Adams has been here. But I guess you know that,” she informed me. “He is currently gone to engage a nurse to take care of little Clara and then will come back to inform me, from when he will be able to take care of his granddaughter.”

“You don’t seem happy about, my dear.”

“I just wonder if it wise to have him take care of her while the case is as yet unsolved.”

“I doubt it is any of the family who has their hand in Miss Adams’ murder,” I replied, looking around me and realising I quite liked what I saw. - A family. Realising what my father had meant when he had told me a few years back, that a family was worth all the trouble that might spring from it. Perhaps I should write to him and thank him for this valuable piece of advice. 

“It is not him, I am concerned about, but the person who killed the mother. Is it not possible, that this person wanted for both of them to be dead? What if he finds out, that the child is still alive?”

This was a thought that had admittedly not crossed my mind yet. I had been so caught up in the idea that no-one knew about her condition, that it had not occurred to me, that this, in fact, might not be the truth. Yet there were at least two people who had known – her aunt and Andrew Clairemont. There might be more – one of the maids perhaps, who took care of her clothes and the washing, her doctor, Miss Fairchild.

Just as I was about to inform Harriet about my findings, the doorbell rang and Jacob Adams appeared once again, telling us he had found a good nurse, that she was willing to start the over next day and that by the day after tomorrow he would take care of his little Clara.

“So her name is Clara?” I inquired curiously.

“Your wife has given her the name and I thought it quite fitting. After all, she is a ray of light in all this darkness, is she not?”

None of us could deny this.

“Have you found anything yet?” Adams carried on, stroking the girls tiny head with loving gentleness, which made me think that his daughter might have fared a lot better, had she confided in him as well as her aunt. 

“I might. I have your daughters diary and perhaps it can give me a definite clue as to what has happened to her. Till then, I would suggest, you keep the existence of your granddaughter quiet.” 

xxx

Harriet:

“So, how was your day, my dearest?” I asked my husband as Adams had left, picking up our conversation where it had left off when he had arrived.

“I cannot possibly say, though the most befitting word would be diverse. I have brought some reading material, perhaps it will even get enlightened,” he answered, pulling out a small booklet from his inner coat pocket.

“That is her diary?”

“It appears so. You were right, by the way, her aunt knew about the baby, who incidentally is the result of a rape.”

Glancing at the tiny creature becoming restless I swallowed hard. If a child had been conceived Davina Adams would not have stood a chance against her violator in any court of law. If a child was conceived this inevitably meant, at least according to our legal system, that the woman had enjoyed the act and as this, it went against the notion of it having been rape.

Considering that many a wife did not enjoy the physical attentions of her husband, I wondered who had gotten this stupid idea into their head in the first place. Seemed that with the declaration of ones wedding vows this theory did no longer apply. 

“And you think the rape and her murder are connected?” I dug deeper.

“I am not yet sure, but I am not ruling it out. Miss Adams was a sheltered young woman and extremely shy. How likely is it, that she would fall victim to a crime twice within less than a year?” 

Sherlock repeated what had happened to the young lady according to her aunt. After he had finished I sat there, brows knitted, staring into space. An expression I knew all too well on my husbands face. I was so deep in thought that I did not even register that Clara had begun to stir, whimpering. It was Sherlock picking up the baby that woke me from my not so pleasant reverie. With the squirming child in his arms, he made his way over to the kitchen to ask Martha to prepare the bottle.

“Sherlock, don’t you find it odd, that with both crimes, Miss Fairchild was nearby?” I asked as he came back.

“But Miss Fairchild could neither have raped her nor did she leave the dressmakers when Davina Adams was killed,” he replied, looking slightly helpless as Clara grew more and more fretful, her little feet kicking and her tiny hands clenched into fists.

This was, of course, right, still was it not my husband who claimed that all possible connections are worth taking into consideration and that with everything else eliminated the one possibility left, no matter how unlikely must be the correct one? 

Smiling he looked at me before answering: “You do have a point, of course, it is odd. But I will have to think the matter over more thoroughly.”

“So I take it I will sleep on my own again, tonight.” I teased.

“No, you’ll have Clara.”

At that instance, Martha came in and unceremoniously pressed the milk bottle into Sherlock’s hand. Perplexed he stared at it before with a wry expression, he began feeding the little girl.

“Well, it was you who asked for it, my dear.” I laughed.

“I did, didn’t I?”

xxx

Turning in early I was surprised when shortly after midnight my husband joined me in bed. He smelled strongly of tobacco – a scent which had recently become so familiar to me and somewhat comforting. If he went to sleep he either had solved the case or needed more information to do so. Seeing no triumph in his features meant it was the latter. As I snuggled up to him I could feel him smile. Wrapping his arms around me it took him only a short time to fall asleep, while my thoughts kept me from doing so still. When after another half hour sleep still did not come I crept out of his embrace and tiptoed downstairs to make myself a cup of tea. It took me a while as the fire needed to be re-stoked and I had just poured water over the dried leaves when Sherlock trudged in, looking quite adorable in his sleepiness, his hair standing in every direction as it was in the habit of doing as soon as it had come into contact with a pillow.

“Clara is hungry again – and I think she needs a change,” he informed me, yawning and looking slightly irritated.

Grinning I told him: “If you take care of the latter, I take care of the former.” 

“Hm.” was all the reply I got, as he turned around and walked back upstairs. 

When I entered the bedroom he was still struggling with the new nappy as it refused to sit straight while at the same time falling apart halfway again as he had not folded it the right way and the gown through all the squirming of our little charge constantly slipped down and into his way making it even more difficult for him.

“Why do they not come with any instructions?” Sherlock Holmes grumbled exasperated.

“Nappies or babies?”

“Both!”

“Do you want me to show you then?” I enquired, putting down both my tea and the milk.

“Please. At least the dirty work is already done,” he remarked quite proudly, though wrinkling his nose and I could not help but ruffle his hair affectionately. 

“You know, Sherlock, I dare say, you are the first man, who did not feel compelled to wake the maid for this kind of job.”

“I was too tired to think of that,” he yawned, while I could once again not help laughing.


	37. Truth or Dare - Part 6

Truth or dare – Part 6

Harriet:

Next morning I woke up to an empty bed as Sherlock had already left but I had not finished my admittedly rather late breakfast when there was a knock on our front door and Jane walked into the house.

“Mr Holmes says, you are to come over to Baker Street, while I am to take care of the child, Madam.” she curtsied with a wry smile on her face.

I looked at her in surprise. This seemed very much like my husband had made some progress on his case and I was curious as to what he had found. Finishing my toast I quickly got dressed and within ten minutes was on my way towards Baker Street where I found my husband pacing up and down the length of his living room, deep in thought.

Knowing better than to disturb him, I sat down in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace, waiting patiently. It was not before long, that there was a ring on the doorbell and a moment later Tom, who must have come here with my husband brought in a young man of not more than five and twenty. He had an arrogant air, was dressed like a dandy and had a decided swagger about him.

“Mr Holmes.” he tipped his immaculate top hat, before taking it off, disposing it on our dining table.

“Mr Fairchild, I greatly appreciate your coming here.”

“I thought I had made it sufficiently clear yesterday, that I know nothing about the matter you seemed so concerned about for whatever reason.”

“You did. But this does not mean I had to believe you.” Sherlock replied calmly.

Fairchild looked down his nose in disdain as he glanced around the room in all its comfortable disarray, from my husbands cluttered desk to the table with his chemical experiments to the well-used armchairs of which I occupied one.

“And the lady?” our visitor enquired, his eyes glancing at last sceptically at me. 

“The lady is just as much involved in the murder case of Miss Adams as I am.” 

The man just huffed before sitting down before having been asked to do so. There was an air of defiance about him I found quite unsavoury. 

“So, how can I help you? As tragic as the death of Miss Adams might be, I have no information to give, as I have already told you. So why do you have to bother again me with this ridiculous inquest”

“You’ll see in a moment. It was actually my wife who got me thinking of something – something that seemed at odds. And the more I thought about it, the more I got convinced of what must have happened.”

“Perhaps you should come to the point. I have not got all day to listen to this nonsensical blubbering of yours.” Fairchild remarked, though looking increasingly uncomfortable.

“All right, then I will make it short. - Two days ago, you saw Miss Adams leave Madame Clairemont’s in a hurry and hastened after her, is that not so?”

With a dramatic sigh, the young man admitted: “I did. She seemed clearly upset about something and when she left the salon without as much as putting on a coat, I found it necessary to follow her. I don’t know about you, but isn’t that, what a man is supposed to do in a situation like this. Safe a woman from her follies and the consequences thereof?”

“Consequences is a very apt word in this instance, Mr Fairchild.” Sherlock smiled grimly, observing the man before him closely.

The look of confusion young Mr Fairchild gave us, was an insincere one. 

“I have not the pleasure of understanding you, Mr Holmes,” he replied. 

“I never said it would be a pleasure to understand my meaning.” my husband twisted his words purposely, handing me the diary as he spoke, pointing at a certain passage that was especially hard to read as the young woman must have at the time of writing cried heavily.

But reading the short paragraph I was rendered speechless. It was not that she had described his appearance very well, but the demeanour was undoubtedly accurately captured with her words. - Arrogant, cold, self-centred.

“Now, Mr Fairchild, as it is, I know you never knew your sister's friend before the day before yesterday, but you have met her before then. She recognised you, did she not?” 

The young man turned pale and sprang up from his seat.

“Oh no, Mr Fairchild, you will not leave this room. Not before I have finished with you, at any rate. - Ah, that will be Hopkins at last!” 

The doorbell had rung again and heavy footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of at least two more men. A moment later the young inspector came in a uniformed constable in tow.

“I am sorry to be late.” Hopkins panted, glancing back and forth between the three of us.

“But you are finally here. Hopkins, meet Mr Fairchild. The murderer of Miss Davina Adams.”

“Murderer?!” the young dandy cried out. “I am no murderer.”

“And how would you describe yourself? Rapist, killer, coward?”

“How dare you insult me!”

“I can hardly insult you with what is accurate, can I now?” Sherlock replied smoothly, lighting a cigarette and offering one to the other men as well.

“It was in March that you and a couple of other young men walked through a park and happened upon a young lady. A very pretty lady, but in drab and unassuming clothing as she had come from a charity bazaar. The group of you had your way with her – she described you well, I have to say. With her not being out in society and you attending University you never chanced upon one another, so you could not know who she was. It was only when you saw her again at Madame Clairemont’s, that you realised she was a woman of society, a débutante, just like your sister. No, moreover, that she was your sisters trusted friend. She recognised you and ran – after what had been done to her, not surprising, really. It was not out of concern for her that you followed her, it was out of concern for yourself. I contacted Mr Clairemont as to when you and your sister left the salon – and guess what I heard? Your sister needed to wait for you for a few minutes before you turned up, claiming what you had told us – that you have been smoking outside. Coincidentally Andrew Clairemont remembered also around what time it was – a quarter past five. Which leaves a window of about half an hour you are not accounted for. A very long smoke in this kind of weather, Mr Fairchild, even had there been a porch to stand under, which I happen to know there was not. This half-hour was more than sufficient time to follow Miss Fairchild, catching up on her by the bridge, exchange a couple of words, kill her and walk back. I see your shoes are quite suitable for this kind of weather. You could have easily overtaken her in her slippers and returned to Clairemont’s in less than ten minutes in which you just escaped discovery. Had you been only a few minutes later, you would have chanced upon the people finding her. Now, how does that sound?”

“Absolutely ridiculous.”

“I think it sounds quite accurate,” I interjected, still holding the notebook in my hands. “She also told you, that she carried your child.”

“She was clearly not expecting, Miss.”

“Doctor Holmes is the name, Sir. And she was. The child lives. Congratulations, you have a daughter.” I told him sarcastically

At that revelation, he gaped at me open-mouthed. 

“Surely not! It cannot be. The child cannot live. It is impossible!” he, at last, cried, losing some of his composure.

“And why would it be impossible, Sir?” I dug deeper.

He did not reply to this but buried his face in his hands. Expectantly we waited, knowing he was at breaking point.

“It was all such a stupid mistake.” Lattimer Fairchild at last began. “It was a game turned vile. I cannot even remember how it happened exactly. - But I still see her face beneath me, her fearful eyes and her lovely mouth.”

“A game, Mr Fairchild? Raping a woman is hardly a game.” Hopkins interjected in a disgusted tone of voice. 

“No, of course, it isn’t. But who said it was a rape? Perhaps I should start at the beginning. I had met with some friends at my club. We drank and smoked and began to make bets which ultimately ended up in the childish game of truth or dare.”

Now it was on us to be rendered speechless.

“I had revealed upon my turn and having chosen truth, that I had never been with… - you know – a woman. It was one of our group who challenged me to a dare and I agreed. He dared me to take the next woman who would cross our paths. Laughing I agreed. I did not think we would actually meet a woman, but there she was, walking through the park all on her own. When she saw us, she smiled and we approached her – I swear, she wanted it.”

“That I doubt.”

“No, she did smile – at first. When we approached her, she looked rather concerned, but she did nothing to stop us. Is that not invitation enough?”

I was so furious words failed me. There was this young girl, intimidated out of her wits and faced with a situation she was completely unprepared for and he dared assume she wanted to be taken with violence? From the corner of my eyes, I could see Sherlock clench his hands into fists, trying to master his own anger as best as he could.

“So you took her.” my husband at last growled.

“Two of my group grabbed her from behind as she had passed us and I did it. - I think this is no place for a lady to listen to this kind of thing.” again he was looking at me.

“Oh, don’t worry, my wife will not faint, and again I trust it is more your discomfort than any consideration for Mrs Holmes that wants you to see her leave. Or are you intimidated by her?”

The blush spreading across the young man’s face and the uncomfortable expression bore testimony to the accuracy of Sherlock ’s assessment.

“So, you raped her. You were not the only one, were you?”

“No. George – he was the one who had challenged me said it appears he needs to show me how it is done properly. It was horrible what he did to her. He was so savage, so unruly and then he spilt himself all over her face at which she threw up. Afterwards, he laughed and said that as tight as she was she surely must have been a virgin and that he understood how I could not last long. It was quite mortifying.”

“I wonder what it was you found so mortifying. Your lack of performance or the fact that you had just raped and ruined an innocent young woman,” I spat with disgust.

Fairchild did not reply to this and so the inspector carried on: “And when you met her at Madame Clairemont’s?”

“You are right. She saw me, I saw her and we recognised one another. She ran and I went after her. At first, I was concerned about her. She looked so very lost, so terrified. I caught up with her at the bridge, how she had managed to run so fast I do not know, but she did. But there she stood, holding her stomach as if in severe pain and I, at last, got there. All I wanted to do was talk, ask for forgiveness. But she would not forgive me, she was so full of hatred, so full of scorn and bitterness.”

“Excuse me, but what did you expect?”

“I don’t know myself. Then she said she would go to the police, now that she knew who I was and that I should never have access to my child. I was confused. I did not know I was a father. Then it dawned on me that if my actions became known I would never get the position I wanted. With the home office, an impeccable reputation is indispensable. I tried to persuade her not to make it public and promised her to take care of her and our child, even offered to marry her. She had none of it. Before I knew it, my hands had closed on her neck and I did not let go of her before she fell to the ground, lifeless. She was dead. I dropped her into the pool and ran back to the salon, claiming I had just gone outside for a smoke.”

For a moment he sat there, sobbing pathetically, whether in self-pity or real regret neither of us could tell. 

“And now?” he asked when he had calmed himself.

“Is that not obvious?” Hopkins remarked, looking thoroughly disgusted. “Oh, and you still have to give us the names of the other men.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Telling us the names might save you from the gallows.”

“George Balford, James Mitchell, Richard Haynes and Stephen Radford.”

“Sir Christopher Balford’s son?” I enquired, taken aback, having heard of the father as he was one of our patrons.

“Yes.”

xxx

Sherlock:

“How did you know it was him? I know it seemed likely and I had thought about it, but how?” my wife inquired as we leaned back into the seats of a Hansom cab that would bring us back to Chiswick.

“Well, after you went back to sleep, I couldn’t sleep any more. Something was nagging at the back of my mind. So I got up and took Clara with me downstairs to think the matter over and to give you a nights rest – you have been horribly grumpy, my dear. I thought about what you had said and it then remembered the path we had taken from the Fairchild’s house to his club – we crossed the park, as it was the shortest route and then I remembered, that Miss Fairchild had been accompanied to the dressmakers by her brother as her mother was too busy preparing for a Christmas party to do so, it seems. And the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced, that it was him. He was unaccounted for at the shop, he fit her description and with suddenly everything fell into place.” I answered, pulling her closer as the wind was fairly chilly and even if it had not been, I just loved to hold her no matter the weather.

“To think that all of this happened because of a stupid game of truth or dare,” she exclaimed sadly, shaking her head. With her fur cap and reddened cheeks, a few locks escaping her otherwise neat bun, she looked adorable in her incredulity.

“Yes, it is one of the most pathetic reasons I have ever heard of. But let us put aside this dreadful business. Let us think about more pleasant things. Now, what are we going to do, when we are home?”

“Look after Clara? You could practise a bit more.”

“Oh, I think I am in as much practice as any man needs to be. After all, I have fed her several times last night and changed her. - You would be proud of me, my dear, I am getting quite practised. Aside, I think Jacob Adams might pick her up tonight.”

“So, you think so?” she smiled. “When did the telegram arrive?” 

“Around seven, just when I was about to leave for Baker Street. I think he cannot bear to not have his granddaughter close after what happened to her mother.”

An expression of sadness stole across her face before she smiled again: “So unless somebody else needs our help again, we have an evening all to ourselves?”

“It looks like it. So what do you suggest we do?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps read a book, or play some music, or...”

Pulling her even closer I kissed her fiercely. 

“… or perhaps none of that.” I finished her sentence when it became necessary to breathe. “Remember, I promised to warm you up.”

“Which is just as well, because I am cold again,” Harriet grinned, kissing me back. “And if I remember it correctly, my husband had promised me to warm me up.”

“Right you are. And I tend to keep my promises.”


	38. Under the mistletoe - Part 1

Under the mistletoe – Part 1

Harriet:

I woke up on Christmas morning by the gentlest of caresses and when I opened my eyes I glanced into the smiling face of Sherlock Holmes. 

“Merry Christmas, my love,” he whispered, placing a soft kiss on my lips.

“Merry Christmas, dearest,” I answered back, wrapping my arms around him. 

From the corner of my eye, I could see something suspended above our bed and looking up I had to laugh at seeing the mistletoe hanging there. How he had managed to hang it up while I was sleeping next to him, I could not fathom, but nonetheless, there it was dangling from the ceiling held together by a bright red ribbon. 

“You are impossible, Sherlock!” 

“Hm, so I have been told,” he mused, with the broadest of smiles lighting up his grey eyes. 

Pulling me on top of him his smile turned mischievous: “But my wife is equally impossible. Impossible to resist at any rate.”

“So, I take it you would like your Christmas gift?”

“Is that not obvious?”

“Very much so. The proof of it is quite evident in this instance.” I replied, softly whispering into his ear. “And you are of course aware of what a mistletoe represents, are you not?”

“I am,” he replied, his eyes hooded and the voice husky.

When we got up it was to a bright winters day. The snow was glistening in the cold winter sun, the sky was wonderfully clear, so much different from the one in the middle of London, where the many fires of the houses seemed to constantly darken it during most of the cold season. Martha was already busy in the kitchen as was Tom, running errands for her all around the house all the while whistling a merry tune. Breakfast was but a quick affair, as I still had many preparations to make for our guests, even though it would be a rather informal gathering among friends. The table needed setting, the holly and mistletoe needed to be hung up and the stockings needed filling. 

“What do you want me to do?” Sherlock asked standing idly by and seeing I was already in the midst of it, polishing the glasses and knives.

“You seem to have a knack for hanging up foliage, so I would say take a ladder and knock yourself out,” I replied, re-tying my apron as I had managed to catch it on the drawer handle of my sideboard where I was working presently.

“Only if it serves my purpose,” he smirked.

“Ah, then I will make sure it will serve your purpose.”

Stepping closer to me he whispered: “And how would you do that then?”

“Hm, you will have to find out. Perhaps a repetition of this morning? - See, there is a good boy.” I teased, pecking him on the cheek, while Sherlock laughed heartily swiftly walking out of the house and over to the laundry to fetch the stepladder. 

“And there you say I am impossible, wife dearest,” he smirked as he returned. 

We were so busy that we almost forgot how late it was and I hardly had time to change into something presentable, when there was a knock on our door and Mrs Hudson and Jane arrived, bringing Sherlock’s violin with them – then again, they were more than an hour early to give us a hand. Of course! What else did I expect? Rushing upstairs to get changed I had barely finished buttoning up my dress, when the Watson’s arrived as well making the party complete and quite a merry bunch. It was good at any rate to see Mary laugh again and laugh she did. 

“No, you will sit, my dear,” Mrs Hudson told me when I went to serve the food. “If your maid is good enough to show me around I will take care of it.”

“But...”

“No but, Mrs Holmes, you have been busy enough this morning.” 

I well knew this was meant in regards to the decorations and the preparations for the meal, yet I could not help blushing and glancing at my husband I saw he desperately tried to suppress a chuckle, which ended in a weird sounding cough.

“I hope you are not getting ill again,” Doctor Watson remarked.

“No, I am perfectly well, thank you.” Sherlock now had serious difficulty in staying serious.

Over our feast, the conversation ultimately touched the subject of our last case and all its tragedy but just when the topic had become too gloomy for such a cheerful occasion and I saw Mary’s good mood about to turn I enquired: “My dear, surely you must have come across many odd cases. What was the most hilarious?”

“Oh, as Watson will tell you there have been many most peculiar and odd cases, but one case comes to mind, which will also be new to my good old Boswell here as it happened before I have met him and when I was only at the very beginning of my career.”

It was obvious that the Doctor was most curious to hear about it as were the rest of us.

“It was in autumn of 1879 when I had my dingy singly chamber in Montague Street, that I was visited by a young widow who seemed to have an issue with a strange man in her house.”

“Oh, I on occasion have an issue with a strange man in my house – particularly when he works with something containing sulphur...” Mrs Hudson remarked dryly at which we all laughed.

“Well, this man was perhaps not quite so strange, but no-one knew who he was. Yet he had been frequently seen on the upper floor of the house and one of the maids was convinced that he must be a ghost as every time he disappeared as suddenly and as noiselessly as he had come. She was quite scared by him. These ‘sightings’ occurred so frequently, that Mrs Bellinger, that was the young widow’s name, at long last came to seek my help. - It was Lestrade who had sent her over as he was of the opinion that a ghost hardly fell into the responsibility of Scotland Yard.”

“He might just have a point there.” 

“Till then I was also more or less under the impression they did not fall into my line of work either.” Sherlock laughed. “But yes, Harriet, he of course was right, this had nothing to do with the police.  
‘Mr. Holmes,’ Mrs Bellinger said looking rather timid as she entered my room one early morning in October of that year. ‘I am quite at a loss as to what to do.’  
‘Then why don’t you tell me your troubles?’ I offered, acutely aware that the present state of my room was not exactly fit to ensure much trust.”

At that, all of us had to chuckle. Sherlock, even though most meticulous in his dress and work, was rather prone to a bohemian lifestyle as I had found out in the few weeks of our marriage.

“I offered her a seat, which she reluctantly took and thus began her tale.

‘I live near Oxford, Mr Holmes. About a year ago my husband died and even though he had secured me and our three children I thought it necessary to move into a somewhat smaller house outside of town. That was about four months ago. I took all my staff with me, apart from the governess I then employed as she wanted to stay closer to her family which had lived nearby my former home. I was quite lucky to find a replacement quickly and ever since had little reason to regret my decision.’

‘Till now?’ I enquired as she fidgeted with her gloves.

‘I still have no reason to be anything but satisfied with her work, and the children dote on her. My husband's death was very hard on my eldest and only son. She managed to put a smile back onto his face, but she also seems to have introduced some kind of secrecy into my household and I cannot help thinking that she might know more about what is going on than she tells.’

At this point, I was getting rather impatient and at the same time was most curious what she would tell me.

‘At any rate,’ Mrs Bellinger carried on, ‘one morning a few weeks back one of the maids approached me and told me that upon ascending the stairs the previous night, she had seen a young man walk across the landing. But before she knew it, he had disappeared. I put it down to tiredness and did not pay much attention. You know how these things are, they read some Gothic novels and think it might happen for real. My cook, however, is a most grounded person and two weeks after the maid, she told me a similar story. That was the point when I began to take it more seriously. I had the servants search all of the house – but of course, there was no man anywhere to be found.’

‘All of the house?’ I dug deeper.

‘Yes, from top to bottom.’

‘Did you check the closets?’

She replied that they had searched the closets as well as every other furniture big enough to contain a grown person.”

“So I presume they had checked underneath the beds as well?” Mary piped up.

“Yes, no man anywhere in sight. But he was seen again and one night Mrs Bellinger herself saw him, too.

‘My youngest, who is but one was ill with getting teeth and I decided to have a look and see how she was faring. I saw a young man cross the landing on tiptoes and disappear.’

‘Can you describe him?’ I enquired.

‘Not thoroughly, but he has short dark hair, is clean shaven and of medium hight. About two or three inches shorter than you are.’

‘What age would you take him to be?’

‘He is rather young, but in the dim light of the landing I could not make him out properly. He might be anything from eighteen to his early thirties.’

‘Built?’

‘Quite lean and nimble.’

Now, this described any number of men and I decided to go down to Oxford the next day to have a look around myself.”

“Why did you not go with her straight away?” I asked.

“Because I had an appointment elsewhere which I did not want to put off.”

“A lady?” I grinned at his fairly sheepish expression. Seeing that his smile was still disarming he must have been extremely handsome when he was younger. I would not have been surprised to hear that many a young lady had swooned over him. Not that he was not still a good looking man, quite the contrary even, but I knew he could be somewhat austere at times.

“No,” he replied, however. “I was to meet with my father.”

At this, all of us gaped at him. Till then I had been under the impression that Sherlock’s father had died when both brothers were still in their childhood, but it seemed I was wrong. Mrs Hudson alone did not seem overly surprised. 

“Your father?” Watson looked as astonished as me.

“Yes.”

“But I – Holmes when did he die? You never said a word. I thought he had died a long time ago. Why did you never share your grief?”

“Because my father is not dead, Watson. He is alive and well.”

Now, this was a Christmas surprise indeed to find out I had a father in law.

“Where does he live?” I managed to ask after several instances of bewildered silence.

“He lived in Egypt for the past several years, working as an archaeologist.”

“Lived?” I dug deeper.

“Currently he is touring through Europe on his way back to England, last I heard of him, he was in Greece. - That was last August.” Sherlock looked anything but comfortable. “He is due to arrive in England by May or June the next year.”

“So you are in contact with him?”

“Infrequently, but yes.” glancing at me he smiled wearily. “Are you angry with me, my dear?”

“No, only very much surprised,” I admitted truthfully. 

There were many questions forming at the back of my mind, but none that I thought appropriate to ask there and then. Instead, I reminded him, that he was about to tell a story and that all of us were quite curious about how it would commence.


	39. Under the mistletoe - Part 2

Under the mistletoe – Part 2

 

Sherlock:

As I had never claimed that my father was dead I was taken by surprise that everybody must have thought so. Thankful that Harriet had provided me with an escape I carried on with my story.

“So the next morning I was on my way to Oxford stuck in a third-class carriage. There I arrived well before noon and was glad that the lady had been true to her promise to send a gig to pick me up as the house was further away from town than she had led on. It was situated in a small village right on the green and judging by the close proximity to the church once must have been the rectory.   
‘Good morning.’ I greeted the maid who opened and was promptly admitted into the house without further ado. It seemed as if I was urgently expected.

‘We have seen her again,’ Mrs Bellinger announced. ‘This time it was Miss Henderson the governess.’

‘On the landing again?’ I enquired, as this seemed to be the one spot where this mysterious chap always appeared to make an appearance.

‘Yes,’ the lady answered breathlessly. It was fairly obvious that by now she was rather disturbed by the situation. And who would not have been? Aside from the young master, who was a mere five, there were no men in the house who could come to aid the women should something sinister occur.”

“Is it not sinister enough in itself that there seems to be an unknown man walking through the house?” Jane shivered, while my wife frowned, presumably recalling her own experience.

“At this point, one almost wants to believe in ghosts. To think that someone broke into the house does seem to be even more alarming than if it had been a spectre.” was Mrs Hudson’s remark.

I smiled. Yes, this had been a pretty little mystery indeed and back then at this point I had been as bewildered as my audience was now, lacking some of the experience of the many years to come.

“Perhaps it was really a ghost...” Tom piped up, having listened with eyes round and mouth open.

Harriet ruffled his hair affectionately and I went on, smiling warmly at the two of them: “After interviewing the servants, all of whom told me the same story, I obviously searched the house, beginning at the infamous landing. The landing was quite dark, with no windows on this level of the building, only illuminated by the stained glass windows of the entrance hall below and by a single gas jet right in the middle of it, which on top of that did not work properly. It was a mere passage between the servants quarters and the nursery and as with it being an old place there were no separate servants stairs this was the one and only way to get there.”

“Could there have been a secret passage the lady did not know about? After all, she had moved there just recently,” Watson now threw in. Again I smiled, taking a sip of mulled wine before I continued my tale.

“Ah well, that was exactly what went through my mind as well, good old friend, and I carefully examined every wall but to no avail. If there was a secret passage anywhere in the house, it was not on this corridor. - Which of course did not rule out, that it was not anywhere on that level – nor did it rule out that there was not any passage at all. But for the time being I, of course, had to assume the former, thinking that perhaps it was tucked away in one of the rooms which led off the corridor. It was hard to discern where this man had come from and where he had disappeared to, as the rest of the passage was simply too dark to see anything properly especially once night had fallen. But this again might have well accounted for the man’s sudden appearance and disappearance – he had simply vanished into the shadows where he might have quietly slipped into one of the rooms. Which led to the question of which one. I started with the ones that were in the darkest corners, which proved to be the cook's bedroom on the right from the stairs and the bedroom of the young master to the left.”

“But of course it was in neither.” Harriet smiled and I got the idea she had already solved the mystery. Or at least parts of it. 

“No, it was in neither, nor in any other of the rooms.”

“So where was this man then?” Mrs Watson asked, looking bewildered but the colour of excitement on her cheeks was most becoming. 

“Ah well, that was the question. As simple as this mystery had started out, I had never come across something like this before. - At least not back then.”

“Could one of the maids have had a lover?” now Martha asked, blushing. 

“And again, that was the next trail I followed. One of the maids indeed had a lover, but she met him openly and at the time was engaged to him, with the knowledge of her mistress, who in turn told me, that the stranger did not resemble the man in question in any way, being taller and of a stockier build. There must be something I have overlooked then, but what? Sitting down on the top of the stairs I began evaluating the information I had been given this far.”

“Which was not much.” Watson mused. “You knew the lady had moved there a few months back, that her husband had died and that she had taken all her staff with her to her new home, so this Mrs Bellinger must have known them quite well and must have thought them trustworthy.”

“She had three children the youngest being but one and the oldest, the only boy, being five. - But actually, the governess was new. The old one did not accompany the family if I recall it correctly.” my wife carried on. “There were no passageways and the house had only one staircase leading to the top floor. - Which I presume was also the only access to all these rooms?”

“It was.” I agreed. “So, what do you make out of it, my dear?”

“Not much,” she admitted. 

“But you have formed a theory?”

“I have.”

“Oh, then let us hear it!” Mary Watson begged.

“Well, if none of the ladies had a lover – apart from one whose sweetheart did not match the description and there was no other way this stranger could have come into the house, then he must have been in the house all along...”

“But they said they searched the house,” Tom interjected.

“They searched the house for an extra person, but did they look for anything else?” my wife enquired.

“They did not.” 

“Did you?”

“Only after the same thought had crossed my mind that you seem to have.” I smiled proudly while the rest of the people assembled in our dining room looked as bewildered as before.

“So, it was clearly not a ghost who haunted the landing, and there seems no other way down than the staircase on which the witnesses had stood. There was no place to hide – or no secret place where anyone had hidden, which means that this mysterious stranger must hide in plain sight.” Hattie grinned. “Eliminate all factors and what is left, no matter how unbelievable, must be the truth.”

“Exactly.”

“I am afraid you still speak in riddles,” Mrs Watson cried out laughing. “The two of you are quite a pair, indeed!”

“It was the governess, of course,” I replied to everybody’s, aside from Harriet’s, surprise.

“The governess? But she had seen the man, too, had she not?” Jane was incredulous.

“Yes, but after everybody else had seen the man, had she not, someone might quite easily have gotten the idea she knew who he was.”

“But where did she hide this chap?” it seemed that with our audience the penny still had not dropped.

“Underneath her skirts.” Harriet and I laughed.

“But how can she hide a man underneath her skirts?” our page asked innocently.

“Of course… - Because the governess IS the man!” Watson cried out in triumph. “I just fail to see why she – he would do this.”

“That is because I have neglected to describe Mrs Bellinger. The lady of the house was an extremely pretty woman and this poor man had the misfortune to fall head over heels in love with her. - In town, he used to live across the road from her, where being a student he had rented a room with an elderly lady. When she moved and he heard she was looking for a new governess he took the opportunity and dressing in women’s clothing and donning a wig he assumed his new position.”

“But why would he go across the corridor dressed like a man?” Mrs Hudson wondered.

“Simple – he did wear his night clothes, a pair of pyjamas and a house jacket. Sleeping closest to the nursery he on occasion was woken up by and needed to tend to the children and sometimes before anybody else was woken he just slipped out without changing, hoping he would not be seen.”

“But the children might have seen him.”

“The girls' nursery during the night was only dimly lit and remember, the two girls were very small – the second daughter was only a little over two. Either would have been happy enough to see any familiar face, even though the hair looked different. And the boy knew.”

“He knew?!” 

“Yes, Watson. This young man had done the exact right thing. Remember when you were a lad? I for my part was mightily proud to keep my secrets – especially from my father and on occasion brother.”

“Yes, me too.” the doctor admitted, smirking at the memory.

“Now, the boy had been greatly affected by his father’s death and this young man gave him something special – the knowledge of his true identity.”

“Hence the mother’s remark about secrecy having been introduced into her house,” Jane concluded.

“Yes Jane, hence the remark the mother had made. The ‘sightings had become more frequent as the baby was teething and he had to get up more than once during the night. - thinking about Clara I actually wonder how it was that he did not come up with a plan over time as he must have been up and about quite often during the dark hours.”

I chanced at my wife who chuckled.

“You are right, but children are different. Some sleep through much sooner than others and some nursemaids have the one or other trick up their sleeve. There had been another governess – or nurse or whatever her real position was, presumably a bit of both, who might have taken care of that matter already so that by the time this young man became their governess the littlest one slept through.”

“And what happened to the young man?” 

“He stayed as governess.”

“He did? Now that surprises me.” Watson exclaimed once more looking quite bewildered.

“Mr Stephenson, that was the man’s real name, was good at what he was doing and there was no reason to give him the sack. He just swapped his petticoats back to his suits – which admittedly suited him better and carried on with his good work.”

“Did he marry Mrs Bellinger?” 

“That I do not know, my dear. I think it likely however as the lady was quite charmed by his dedication.”

xxx

Harriet:

“It was a lovely day, was it not?” I enquired as we prepared for bed.

“Yes, it was.” Sherlock smiled contently, running his fingers through my hair. 

It had been a day full of smiles and laughter of joy and cheer it could not have been better.

“Harriet, I have not given you your Christmas present yet.” my husband suddenly stated reaching into the pocket of his dressing gown. “I forgot it up here.”

He handed me the small parcel and reached for what I had given him and which he had not yet unwrapped.

“Thank you.”

Opening the small box I found a pretty little locket on a gold chain. The craftsmanship was extraordinary and I was astounded.

“Sherlock, you should not have...”

“Yes, I should have, Harriet. I had never thought I would be such a happy man and you deserve all I can possibly afford and more.” he told me earnestly and grinning boyishly he added: “And besides it contains my photograph so I can always be with you and you won’t forget this grumpy husband of yours.”

“Grumpy you are on occasion – as am I. Anyway, I like the idea, as I love having you around nonetheless.” 

“Harriet!” he cried out at opening his own present. “This is most wonderful. All this work you took upon yourself. And this is lovely, too. Where did you get it?”

I had given him a set of embroidered handkerchiefs as he had asked into which I had wrapped an engraved silver case containing a patent fountain pen so he would never have to deal with a blunt pencil again.

“Do you like it?”

“Very much so. Thank you, my love.”

As we snuggled up in bed another matter came to mind. 

“Sherlock, you once told me you grew up with your uncle. What exactly happened to your parents?”

Sighing he pulled me closer.

“That my dear is a bit complicated, I am afraid. You see, when I was seventeen I received a letter from my late mother’s solicitor which she had left with him shortly after I was born. This letter turned my whole world upside down and for years to come, I would have difficulty trusting in people. The man I had grown up with and of whom I had always assumed that he was my uncle and which I also called uncle, turned out to be my father, making Mycroft and I only half brothers and in consequence the man I had always thought to be my father my uncle.”

“Good grief!”

“So, the people I had always thought of as being my parents have died when I was three years old. There was a gas leak in my grandparent's house, as far as I could find out and my grandparents, as well as my father, died instantly while my mother clung to her life for a few more days but at last succumbed to her injuries. My father's brother took us in. - Or at least so I had thought till I turned seventeen.”

“So you did grow up with your father?”

“Yes, I did. I just did not know it – though many people had remarked on how similar we look and are. And there indeed is a striking resemblance.”

“It must have been a shock to realise your mother and uncle had an affair.”

“It was at first – and for several years I refused to listen to what Uncle Aldwin – father - had to say. The very day when I was engaged by Mrs Bellinger was the first time in years that we spoke and I then found out that there never had been an affair, but that my supposed father had been severely ill, having had a stroke and that they thought he would not live to see the next day. In their desperation, they comforted one another and I was the result.”

I was speechless.

“My actual uncle, however, did survive though he never recovered fully as far as I know from Mycroft and father. My real father feeling guilty began teaching at a public school for boys and after our parents and grandparents death took us in, moving to a small village where he took up a position as a teacher once again. It’s close to Lewes.”

“What is the village called?” 

“Langfield in the Downs.”

“I know it. It’s very tranquil.”

“It was not while I was a lad living there.” Sherlock Holmes grinned, kissing my forehead affectionately. “I was always up to something, I can tell you. Now I realise my father must have had the patience of a saint.”

“That I do believe in an instant. So that day Mrs Bellinger called, you, at last, got talking again?”

“Yes. After that, we wrote to each other occasionally but it took the Reichenbach-incident for me to really forgive him. I had never felt so lonely in my life and suddenly I could understand how my mother and he could have behaved like that. During that time more than once, I was short of paying for the comforts of a woman but never did, knowing it would make me feel even worse.”

Caressing his cheek I mused for a moment before asking: “I know you travelled the east and you said he lived in Egypt for many years. Did you meet him?”

“Yes. I was overwhelmed by the joy he showed in seeing me and he told me a family would be worth all the trouble and heartache in the world and that no matter how I acted or what I did I would always be his beloved son. It took me all my journey to realise that I was not meant to be single and I vowed to myself that whenever I would find a woman who could love me and whom I loved to marry her and built a family. And when I held you in my arms on that fateful morning two months ago I knew I had found her – the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

“Then I am very grateful to your father for giving you this sound piece of advice,” I smiled through tears ran down my face so moved was I

“Yes, me too. He is a great man and I cannot wait for the two of you to meet.”

“Does he know you are married?”

“Not yet. I would like to surprise him. But in my last letter to him, I have mentioned that I had recently met a very lovely young lady.”

“You know what, Sherlock Holmes? You truly are impossible! And I love you even more for it.” 

His answer was a very passionate kiss.


	40. The Parting Glass - Part 1

The Parting Glass – Part 1

Harriet:

The week after Christmas had passed quietly, at least for my husband as there were no new cases for him to work on, while I, on the other hand, had been exceptionally busy, having to help out at St. Anne’s as a sudden bout of flu had bereft me of many of the volunteers. The new year had thus begun without me even really realising it. 

It was very early morning of the second day of January when much to my surprise a telegram from my brother arrived announcing his coming to town the very same day. This was somewhat of a surprise as Sherlock and I were due to arrive at his estate in a few days time anyway for his new year’s event, which he held every year. Moreover, as the telegram was addressed to my husband, I was almost certain this would not be a social call. It seemed Sherlock had come to the same conclusion.

“Hm, he gives no reason for his sudden visit,” he remarked, handing me the telegram. “But I dare say he wants to see me on business. It sounds quite urgent as well, does it not? One has to wonder what it is all about.”

I was rather alarmed by my brother’s note and could not but agree. 

“The wire has not been sent from Lewes,” I added, glancing over it once more.

“No, it is from Petersfield. Do you know anyone from there, my dear?”

“Yes, the Atwell’s.”

“Are they close friends?”

“Not of mine, though I do know them of course. Sir Robert is a member of the same party as Cedric and like him, he is a magistrate. They will be at Cedric’s party, too. Sir Robert is a nice enough man, perhaps a bit pompous, but the son I prefer to avoid.” I replied, rolling my eyes.

“Why so?” Sherlock asked, looking slightly bemused.

“Because whenever we meet I never seem able to get rid of him.” 

Now my husband laughed: “So I take it he is one of your many admirers?”

“I have no admirers, Sherlock. And even if I had, I doubt he would be one of them. I hardly meet his standards for a fashionable and obedient lady. However, he too is in the same party as my brother and as Sir Cedric’s sister might have thought me a suitable match. But honestly, the man is a nuisance, I tell you!”

“I could not fault him for admiring you, Hattie, but in your own right of course, not because you are someone’s sister.”

Getting up I pecked him on the cheek just as the door opened and Mrs Hudson brought in our breakfast, smiling at this simple display of our mutual affection. She was closely followed by Tom delivering our daily stack of morning papers.

“Ah, food for the stomach and the brain!” Sherlock cried out, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Knowing my spouse I was certain it was more the latter he was yearning for than the former. But different to many husbands I knew, including my brother and late father, he refrained from reading the papers during the meal and instead we chatted about this and that. I was not particularly hungry and listlessly munched away on my buttered toast with the slightest spread of strawberry jam, while Sherlock helped himself to some scrambled eggs and some bacon.

“Have you lost your appetite?” he enquired, his eyebrows raised questioningly. 

“I think over Christmas I have eaten a bit too much,” I replied, truthfully. 

My corset felt uncomfortably tight and I felt decidedly sluggish, which made the long hours at the hospital quite a chore.

“You might have a point there.” Sherlock patted his stomach theatrically. “Ah well, that is the danger of the festive season, my love. And it does not help, of course, that Mrs Hudson and Martha are very good cooks.”

At last, I had to smile as Sherlock Holmes was as lean as ever. 

When we had finished eating we equally divided the papers between us, and moving over to the fire began reading. Sherlock with a pipe between his lips and I with a cup of tea beside me, the only thing which seemed to settle my revolting stomach. It was my husband who first spotted the article: 

“’It is with sadness we have to announce the death of the Honourable Sir Robert Atwell, magistrate for Peterborough and South Sussex. Sir Robert died unexpectedly on January 1st of this year. Though nothing more is known about the exact circumstances, the fact that the police has been called in indicates that a tragedy must have occurred and that his death might not have been a natural one.’ - It seems we can safely assume that this is what brings your brother here.”

“Yes, so it seems.” I agreed, saddened by the sudden and unexpected death of a family friend, even though I had little to do with him. Tears threatened to escape my eyes and I felt somewhat silly to cry over the death of a man I had barely known. Swallowing hard I searched through my own paper and found a similar article in it.

As a matter of fact, as we looking through the stacks of papers, we found several articles of almost the same content all implying an unnatural death, but only the ‘Chronicle’ was openly speaking of a crime committed.

xxx

It was close to lunch when Cedric appeared with none other than Charles Atwell in tow. The man was just as unpleasant as I remembered him to be, scolding my brother at the mere sight of me, and even before he greeted my spouse. 

My ire rose instantly as he spoke to my brother: “Sir Cedric, is it really suitable for your sister to be here? There surely was no need for her to come and bother Mr Holmes.”

“I happen to live here, Mr Atwell.” I snapped testily before any of the men could answer. “My brother has absolutely nothing to do with my presence.”

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Sherlock welcomed him suavely, a knowing look on his face – and one of understanding. “You have obviously met my wife, Mr Atwell. I think Harriet mentioned it earlier this morning.” 

He waved his hand in an invitation to our visitors to sit down and make themselves comfortable.

“Your wife?” Atwell gasped in surprise, glancing accusingly at my brother, who in turn just shrugged his shoulders. I knew quite well that Cedric, while greatly liking Sir Robert, did not much care about the son either.

“It seems I have forgotten to mention, that Mr Sherlock Holmes happens to be my brother in law,” he, at last, answered offhandedly. 

“Yes, so it seems,” was his companions annoyed reply.

“Dare I doubt it is mine or my wife’s marital status you have come here to discuss?”

“No, of course, it is not. It was just some surprise, I have to say. - Anyway, you might have read it in the papers already, Mr Holmes, that my father has died yesterday.”

“I – we have,” Sherlock replied, settling down himself, leaning back in his armchair, elbows on the high armrests and his fingertips lightly touching, while his grey eyes gazed intently at his new client. “From what we have gathered from them it is generally assumed that Sir Robert’s death was not a natural one.”

“That, unfortunately, is correct. This is why we are here.” Cedric answered with an expression of worry on his features. 

Again Atwell glanced at me, clearly expecting me to leave, while my brother seemed resigned not to get involved in any potentially ensuing argument regarding the proper position of a woman in society and mine in particular. It seemed one could teach an old dog new tricks after all. I surely had to thank my mother for it. Bless her!

“Miss Stephrey, would you ple… - Mrs Holmes, I mean, of course, would you kindly leave us to it. This is not a conversation suitable for a young lady,” Atwell finally stated when I did not budge.

“No, perhaps it is indeed better I leave.” for once I agreed, not wanting to embarrass Cedric. “I need to go into town shortly anyway and then work awaits me for an hour or two.”

While the former was perfectly true the latter was not, even though I had planned to drop in at St. Anne’s to shortly check on one of my patients who was very poorly on my way back from my final fitting. I had, after some contemplation, deemed it necessary to purchase a new gown as Imogen liked to maintain a certain style and extravagance with her more formal functions and for once I was not in the mood to toe the line. 

xxx

Sherlock:

With some annoyance I watched Harriet leave and at the same time thoroughly understood her dislike for the young Mr Atwell. Had it not been for my brother in law, I would have insisted on her staying. On the other hand, I knew that she indeed had an appointment at her dressmakers and that she would need to leave within the hour anyway. Why she needed to go to St. Anne’s though, was beyond me. She had worked through from early morning on Boxing Day when she had been called into an emergency and since then had hardly spent less than ten hours there every day. The time we had wanted to spend leisurely together had been disrupted by many of the volunteers falling ill and as I glanced at my wife she too did not look all too healthy. Her meagre breakfast was yet another testimony to that and I could not help noticing her paleness and general tiredness. Then again, who was I to preach to her about taking things slow and taking care of oneself? 

Putting on a neutral face I beckoned Atwell to proceed as soon as the door was closed behind Hattie. 

“We were celebrating New Year’s as well as my father’s birthday and had a couple of friends invited.”

This accounted for Sir Cedric being there.

“How many people were there?” I asked, curious what counted as a couple of friends among the likes of the Atwell’s.

“All in all just thirty, including our own family. The weather has prevented many from coming over without any difficulty and so our circle was rather small.”

Cedric handed me a list of names. It seemed he was prepared for every eventuality. Taking it from his hands I cast a quick glance over it, startled to read yet another familiar name, other than Sir Cedric’s and Lady Imogene’s that is.

“If you could continue please.” I encouraged him, folding the paper and putting it into the inner pocket of my coat.

“It was shortly after midnight and we were toasting to my father’s health, when suddenly he reached for his throat, panic on his features his lips moving but not making any sound as he glanced pleadingly at Professor Peverell and then collapsed. For a second or two none of us did stir, too shaken to move. At last Peverell, who is a medic rushed forward and to Sir Robert’s aid - but alas, it was too late. My father was dead by then.”

“Has there been an autopsy yet?”

“No. My mother and I would prefer not to have one conducted, Mr Holmes. The thought of having him cut open is most abhorrent to her.”

“I doubt it can be avoided, Atwell,” Cedric interjected before I could say anything. “As the police have been called in, there will have to be at least a viewing and it is not unlikely there will also be a court order for a full examination. After all, this might be a murder. - Unless it is a most unfortunate coincidence and your father died of natural causes after all. But even this we will have to establish with any certainty.”

I voiced my agreement with my brother in law, asking: “I presume your father has been a healthy man?”

“Yes, very healthy, particularly for his age.”

“Anything he might have hidden from you? Did this Professor Peverell perhaps indicate something of the kind?”

“He hardly ever saw his doctor, which is not Peverell, by the way. Peverell does not practise, he is an academic at King’s College here in London.” 

I made a note of it in the hopes that Harriet might know him then.

“Please proceed.”

“There is nothing more to tell, Mr Holmes,” Atwell said. “My father dropped dead and that is that.”

Sighing I reached for my pipe. Some people were rather tedious clients because they would tell one so many irrelevant things that it was enough to fill a novel, while in this case, the man told me too little to work with it. I glanced in Sir Cedric’s direction only to see he apparently thought the same. From his expression, I could also tell that if he had been on his own, he could and would have told me a great deal more. But as it seemed, this would have to wait till later. There was something about my client which made me hesitant to speak openly to my wife’s brother while he was present. 

While I stuffed my pipe I pondered for a few minutes. As yet it was not even certain there had been a crime committed, only an autopsy could establish this. A sudden death might at first glance appear suspicious, but might just as well be down to a hitherto unknown medical condition. So, why would his son, wife and friends think it was a crime in the first place? Surely only if the man had an enemy. But the response to my question was a negative one – at least from the son, while Cedric Stephrey gave a slight nod behind his companions back and caught my eye.


	41. The Parting Glass - Part 2

Sherlock:

As there was nothing else to be done here, I suggested to go down to Petersfield and as it was the next train was to leave in one and a half hours, which left me enough time to pack my suitcase as I had some doubt that I would return to London before the weekend.

It was to some relief, that Sir Cedric followed me into the bedroom under the pretence of wanting to talk to me about a family matter. - Well, strictly speaking, that was what he started with, voicing the same concerns I had.

“Harriet does look pale,” he remarked, looking slightly accusingly at me.

“Yes, she does. Last week has been trying and extremely busy and Hattie has worked long hours. I told her she needs to take care so she does not fall ill again.”

“Which of course was preaching in vain...” my brother by marriage trailed off with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Yes. But it has quieted down now and I am quite sure she claimed to need to go to work only to put Atwell into place.”

“Yes, she never liked him. Perhaps I should tell you that two years back he has asked for my consent to marry her. - Which I declined, by the way.”

“Does she know about it?”

“No.” was his wry answer as he sat down on the bed.

I chuckled while he looked around the cramped little chamber, which since Harriet had entered my life had become so much neater and comfortable than it had been before.

“I thought you had moved to Chiswick.”

“We have. And still, sometimes it is more convenient to stay here. And at any rate, this address is too well known to give it up. Besides, I don’t want my family home to be invaded by all kinds of shady figures day in and day out.”

“You might have a point there. It is not exactly suitable to raise a family.”

Ah, I was being scrutinised myself for a change. Fair enough. After all, I had married Harriet rather unexpectedly and how was he supposed to know this was more than just a marriage of convenience? He had only seen us together for a day before he had left Winchester again and considering the circumstances back then, he had reacted more than well.

“No, it is not.” I thus smiled. “I certainly don’t want my children to grow up amidst crime – and chemical experiments...”

“And my sister is happy?” 

“That is a question only she can answer, Sir Cedric. What I can tell you, however, is, that I love her deeply.”

This statement seemed to surprise him. At last, he said: “You certainly look very comfortable together. Always have.”

“We are,” I agreed but then thought it necessary to change the subject back to the case. “Sir Cedric, you nodded, when I asked if Sir Robert had enemies. Who do you have in mind?”

“He told me he has recently received a letter threatening him with bodily harm if he continued to block a certain petition in parliament. He did not seem to take it too seriously however, so I thought nothing more of it till you asked.”

“What kind of petition?”

“Allowing the general attendance of women at universities. – Even Oxford and Cambridge, believe it or not.”

“You know Harriet would have a field day with this, don’t you?”

“Oh yes! - At least now I know after it has been hidden from me for years.”

“Does it surprise you?”

“No. I got a bit too involved in politics and in what my chosen party stands for. But Harriet would be proud to hear that I at least suggested an acceptable alternative, suggesting the founding of a couple of universities solely for women instead of them studying alongside the men.”

“Admittedly I don’t quite see the necessity for it, as your own sister studied at King’s College. - Aside, there is an academy for ladies here in London, but its reputation is rather lowly.”

“Hattie had the advantage of growing up with an extremely bossy older brother, Holmes. She knows how to prevail anyhow.”

There he certainly had a point. My wife was not of a faint-hearted disposition and she certainly knew how to speak up for herself.

“So you think that whoever wrote this letter could have followed through with his – or her threat?” I dug deeper.

“I am not sure. There is, after all, a difference between a threat, bodily harm and murder.” he mused.

“Are there other possibilities?”

“I have heard rumours that he has had some trouble over some money issues, but could not determine whether it was him being in financial troubles or the other party or if he was just the one who had intervened.”

“Where have you heard about it?” I enquired, taking my dress suit out of the wardrobe and packed it neatly on top of the rest of my clothes before closing the lid.

“From Musgrave. You should ask him. He is a magistrate for West Sussex and as such was often in company with Atwell.”

“You would, of course, have no idea whether he spoke to Sir Reginald about it as a legal matter or a private one?”

“No. He was very vague at any rate, rather asking me as a hypothesis what I would do. That he spoke of Atwell I could only discern by the way he glanced at Sir Robert.”

This was indeed very vague and still, it was better than nothing. At least I had something, to begin with.

“And Sir Robert quite literally dropped dead?”

“Yes. The evening had been a very cheerful one. The Atwell’s are very good hosts and while no-one was actually drunk we admittedly were all a bit tipsy.”

“No quarrel? No bad word? Timid glances?”

Cedric Stephrey looked bewildered for a moment before answering: “None that I am aware of. At least not towards Sir Robert.”

“But…?” I dug deeper.

“Nothing. I cannot put my finger on it, but there seemed some hostility from Mr Whitshaw towards Charles Atwell and later, when we all had retired I thought I heard him quarrel with his wife. At any rate, she came to London with us while her husband stayed behind.”

“Did she give a reason?”

“No. I have barely spoken to her as she preferred to read a novel instead. Somehow it seemed Mrs Whitshaw tried to avoid Atwell, there was some hostility I cannot really put my finger on. At the party I saw her talking to Imogen for a while though, perhaps my wife knows more than I.”

“Could Atwell have an affair with Mrs Whitshaw?”

“Possibly.”

“Then it might also be possible that it was the son who was supposed to die?”

At that Cedric shrugged his shoulders again.

“What was the last drink Sir Robert had taken? Mr Atwell said you had been toasting to the man’s health, so I take it he must have drunken something right before he died?”

“He had a glass of punch if I recall it correctly. He stuck to it all evening long.”

“And none of the guests had any reaction?”

“No, not of the guests at least. But when the maid cleaned up this morning after the police had left, she too collapsed and the doctor was sent for.”

Now, this was extremely interesting. 

“Where you there when it happened? - I mean the maid collapsing.”

“I was in the hall when the butler carried her out of the room.”

“Good, then I will talk to him about the incident. This case seems very elusive as yet. But alas, I think it is time to leave.”

Glancing at his watch Sir Cedric nodded and got up from the bed, while I took out my notebook and pen and quickly wrote a message for my wife to follow as soon as was convenient for her. Hoping it would be before the end of the week and before my brother in law’s own party.

xxx

Harriet:

When I returned to Baker Street it was not much of a surprise to find my husband absent and a note from him instead, informing me he had gone down to Petersfield. Of course, he would do so. Sherlock Holmes had been idle for almost two weeks and was beginning to be restless, even though he would not admit to it. Instead, he had been very attentive when I came home in the evenings while during the days he had kept himself busy studying in alternation files of old criminal cases and the analysing of fingerprint patterns. I had passed by at St. Anne’s to see if everything was in order, told them to call for me should there be any need and then had gone on to get a birthday present for Sherlock. Once more a tricky quest I have to say. Now I was tired and worn and putting up my feet was perfectly resigned to spend an evening reading, when the doorbell rang once again, and two young ladies were admitted into our living room, one of them looking extremely pale, the other rather livid.

“I am afraid my husband is not at home.” I began, offering them a seat anyway seeing that the younger one was ready to faint.

“That is very unfortunate, Mrs Stephens. We have just missed him at the hospital and were so fortunate as to obtain the information we would find him here. My sister is in dire need of some medical advice.” The older, annoyed one, spoke, glancing about the room with some confusion.

“If you are looking for medical advice I dare say you are actually looking for me and not my husband.”

“We are looking for Dr Reymond Stephens, who was recommended to us by a Lady Imogen Stephrey. She said this should do to recommend ourselves.”

“Yes, this would be me and it does. I use that name to publish. Dr Harriet Holmes is the actual name. - And Lady Imogen is my sister in law.” I introduced myself, stretching out my hand, which the woman took with some surprise showing on her features.

“My name is Mr John Whitshaw and this is my sister Miss Mary Summerly.”

The younger lady just glanced up at me and I noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed and she had obviously been crying, the redness the more prominent as she was so very pale. The deduction as to what was wrong with her was an easy one. Ordering some tea and biscuits I settled down myself, suppressing a sigh as I felt extremely tired and even more so as I knew what was to come.

“So, tell me what ails you.” I smiled, glancing at the younger of the two.

“I fear I might be...” she stopped, unsure how to voice her concerns.

“Expecting?” I enquired, knowing it was little use beating about the bush.

She nodded timidly before she started crying again. Her sister got up, put an arm around her and then carried on, her voice firm: “My sister, Doctor Holmes has given in to the persuasions of a man and is now carrying his child. We are here to request you terminate the pregnancy.”

I stared at them. As much as I understood their predicament they surely must know that I could not legally do so. What they requested of me was considered manslaughter and on top of that a highly dangerous operation for the mother where infertility was the side effect least to be feared. I told them as much.

“So you would rather have my sister ruined?” Mrs Whitshaw asked with some annoyance.

“No, of course not. But I will not abort the child either. Instead, I will help you find another solution.”

“What solution is there? She is to marry in four months.”

“And I take it is not her betrothed’s child she is carrying,” I remarked sternly, suddenly getting quite annoyed be either of the sisters. The one for making such a demand and the other for being so incredibly stupid as to get herself into such a situation in the first place.

“No.”

“Could she dissolve the engagement?”

“Father won’t let me. He has a title and a lot of money after all.” Miss Mary Summerly whispered, tears still streaming down her handsome face now all blotchy and swollen.

“And the father?”

“I rather not speak of him.”

At that Tom brought in the tea tray and quickly left again, saving me from replying. Pouring the scalding hot liquid I handed a cup to each of the ladies while wondering about how to proceed. I had anticipated a medical matter, but this was a problem of a different kind.

“When has your bleeding stopped?” I, at last, asked, taking a sip from my cup. 

“About three months ago.” 

If this was the case there was still some hope she was not pregnant at all but suffering from some kind of medical condition. I said as much and suggested an examination of the lady’s abdomen. Locking the door I did what was possible, but there was no use, she was no doubt with child, her uterus was swollen and a faint linea nigra had begun to appear ion her otherwise flawlessly white abdomen. 

Sighing I told them of the diagnosis and beckoned the girl to re-dress.

“And aside from the two of you no-one knows about this as yet?”

Both shook their heads.

“I am not quite sure how I can help you, to be honest. Your engagement complicates matters as do your upcoming nuptials in only a few months. Is there no way of postponing the wedding?”

“No, my fiancé insists we are to be married on the 10th of April as it would be his thirtieth birthday and he had always meant to be married by then,” was the young lady’s desolate reply as she buttoned up her waist again, the many tiny buttons giving her some trouble as her hands were shaking.

“Is the father married? Or is he just not of a high enough social standing?” I tried to determine whether there might, after all, be another option as yet.

“He is not married.” Miss Summerly answered tonelessly, blinking away yet some more tears. “And he is a noble himself.”

“But he would not marry you?” 

“Doctor Holmes, one is a lord, a peer of the highest ranks and the other is a mere country baronet,” Mrs Whitshaw remarked coldly.

At that her sister sprang up from her chair, glaring at her sibling with some contempt before hissing: “Only because you don’t like Charles does not mean no-one does. I love him! Why can my family – and most of all you – not accept that I love him and that I would willingly leave Lord Banbury for his sake?”

“No sane person can love a man like Charles Atwell!”

Gaping at the two ladies in front of me I was lost for words. This I had not seen coming.


	42. The Parting Glass - Part 3

Harriet: 

It took a few minutes for me to collect myself before spluttering: “You speak of Charles Atwell, son of the late Sir Robert Atwell?”

“Yes. Do you know him?” Mrs Summerly asked, looking somewhat alarmed.

“I do know him indeed,” I answered truthfully thinking of the man I had been all too happy to escape earlier this day.

Suddenly it occurred to me, that perhaps the younger Atwell might have been the intended target and not his father. 

“For the moment I cannot give you any advice,” I admitted, biting my lip in contemplation. “But if you leave me your card I will contact you as soon as something comes to mind which might help your situation. However, I will not participate in an abortion and that is final!”

“Then I doubt you can be of any help, Doctor.” the older of the two sisters remarked archly but left her card nonetheless. 

As soon as the ladies were gone, I scribbled a note to my husband and sent Tom to dispatch a telegram. This was a strange coincidence but perhaps also a lucky one. 

xxx

Sherlock:

The train ride was a quiet one as none of us spoke very much. Atwell was staring morosely out of the window watching the country fly past, showing the first hint of mourning for his father I had thus far detected. Cedric busied himself with a paper as did I. Halfway through the journey Atwell excused himself to get a cup of tea which once more left me with my brother in law and a few minutes of unrestrained conversation with him. 

“You would not know by chance if there had been any tensions within the family?” I enquired. 

Folding his paper neatly Sir Cedric pondered on the answer for a moment before replying: “I know that Sir Robert had some issues with his son.”

“Regarding what?”

“His general lifestyle. Charles Atwell is not inclined to work for his upkeep but rather likes to spend his father’s fortune – well, I suppose it is his now anyway. He has a taste for expensive clothing and as you can see is quite a dandy. He also likes to bet on horses and has a habit of playing heavily at cards, but as far as I know never to an extent that would ruin him or his family. Sir Robert would have liked to see him marry and settle down in the near future, but while he likes to flirt with the ladies he has not really any interest in settling down yet and take a wife.”

“Aside from Harriet,” I remarked dryly. 

“Yes,” Cedric rolled his eyes but looked somewhat uncomfortable.

“I take it these habits kept you from giving your consent?”

My brother in law nodded: “That and the fact that I know Hattie cannot stand him.”

“Yes, that is certainly true - and I have to admit the more I see of the man the more I agree with her. But being unpopular does not make one a criminal and I have often found that the unpolished ones often are the more precious gems than those who appear shiny and sparkly at first glance.”

“Nicely put, Holmes. Very poetic.” Cedric remarked chuckling lightly. “But somehow I think with Charles Atwell it is pretty much that what you see is what you get. - Which still would not make him a murderer, I know.”

As Atwell himself joined us again only moments later we once again fell silent. Not that the conversation had been overly illuminating at any rate. 

xxx

It was close to five in the afternoon when we arrived in the small Hampshire town on the border to Sussex where the Atwell’s estate was situated. The wind was chilly and the snow lay much higher than it had in London, but it was also a great deal whiter than in the metropolis where it had turned into a grimy blackish brown sludge. It was dark already when we de-boarded the train and huddled ourselves into a well kept Landau, it’s top closed to keep the frosty breeze out, though with little success and even the provided blankets were rather futile in the face of the heavy frost. The drive was a long one – not in distance but time due to the icy roads, and when we, at last, glimpsed the yellow lights from between a group of trees surrounding the house I was close to breathing a sigh of relief. 

Upon entering we were greeted by none other than Reginald Musgrave, who seemed to have wandered impatiently up and down the entrance hall awaiting us. He looked strained and tired but aside from that had changed little since I had last seen him some fifteen years ago.

“Holmes, I am so glad you could come!” he cried out, rushing towards me with an outstretched hand. “Sir Cedric kindly offered to travel to London to apply to you, of course, I would have come if it were not for my wife – she is a little nervous and I thought it better not to leave her in a strange place where she hardly knows anyone. Well, you know how women can be. But I told Sir Cedric to mention my name and told him you would surely not let down an old friend.”

I had to smile, raising my eyebrows questioningly at Sir Cedric as here was obviously another person who had not been informed about my kinship with the Stephrey’s. 

“How are you faring, Atwell?” Musgrave carried on, turning towards the man who still looked astonishingly composed considering the situation. 

“I am fine, thank you.” was his off hand reply as he handed his hat and coat to the approaching butler, rubbing his frostbitten and numb hands together in an attempt to get them warm. There was something odd about his behaviour and for the first time, it occurred to me that his seemingly composed attitude was due to a severe shock yet to set in.

“I am glad to hear it. By the way, the police have been here. They came with a court order to have your father’s body viewed on the morrow.”

Atwell stiffened visibly at that news, though he certainly must have expected them.

“Has he been taken away yet?” I asked, hoping this would not be the case.

And indeed luck was on my side.

“No, he is still here, laid out in his room. There is a guard, however, keeping watch.”

All the better. 

“Very good. Could you please bring me to him then? I would like to examine the body myself before he is removed.”

While Sir Reginald and Sir Cedric offered to guide me, Charles Atwell excused himself in quest of comforting his mother. As he walked away his back was ramrod straight like a soldier’s facing battle.

xxx

Sir Robert Atwell had been a sturdy man, not too tall but also not short in appearance. His dark hair had begun to grizzle at the sides while his hairline had receded considerably which he had tried to hide by combing it across his skull. His features were unremarkable close to unassuming, aside from his imposing moustache which, with the help of beeswax- pomade, was twirled intricately at the ends. Aside from that he had been lied out in the usual formal manner he had neither been changed nor yet washed and thus still wore the dress suit in which he had found his death, the bright red stain which the punch had left clearly visible on the front of his white waistcoat, shirt, his collar and cuffs, the latter of which were only dotted by drops of the spilling liquid.

Otherwise, there was no mark or injury on him, not even such an unassuming thing as a paper cut or a graze from shaving. Last I examined the dead man’s face and upon inspecting the mouth cavity found something – though certainly not what I had been looking for. His throat was raw as if he had lately suffered a severe inflammation of it. But both my companions testified he had not had suffered any such symptoms. Only when I brought the candle, which I had lit to give me even better visibility than only the gas jets, closer did I see something reflect the flame lodged right behind the uvula and taking out my pincers pried out a tiny shard of glass. 

“What did Sir Robert do all evening long? Was he quiet? Or…?” I could not finish my sentence when Cedric spoke up, staring curiously at the glinting shard in the palm of my hand.

“Not at all. He was chatting away merrily all night long and even was persuaded to sing for us. - You must know he was a horrible singer, but he liked to joke about it and thus frequently treated his guests to the one or other aria so off key that it was quite a challenge to guess what he was actually singing.”

Sir Reginald chuckled in remembrance till his eyes fell on the dead man and he instantly turned serious again.

If that was the case, then the glass which seemed to have cut into his throat and oesophagus till it was raw could not have led to his death. The wounds were simply not severe enough. But what if the glass had been applied to make a poison work quicker? The murderer of Sir Robert Atwell would not be the first to resort to this trick. So, after having eliminated all other factors, poison it was – unless of course, he had suffered from a medical condition after all. But why then were tiny shards of broken glass inside his mouth? No, a natural death did not make sense, this was a murder and I would find the person who had committed the crime. 

I was about to ask to be brought to the suffering maid when there was a knock on the door and the butler stepped into the chamber carrying a silver tray with a telegram on it.

“For Mr Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

I was surprised. Who knew I was here? Apart from Harriet of course. But if it was from my wife… I glanced up at her brother who fortunately looked nothing but curious. Reaching for the epistle I opened the envelope and unfolded the telegram finding it indeed was from Hattie. But had I first feared she had suddenly been taken ill or the like, what I read opened up many more possibilities on who might have killed the man and why – and then there was the issue that if Charles Atwell had been the intended target and not his father, that he might still be in danger now. Was that perhaps why he acted so strange for a man who had just lost his father? So almost unfeeling and vague?

“What is it?” Reginald Musgrave asked, lighting a cigar and offering one to Sir Cedric and me as well.

“Nothing, just something I need to think over. It seems there is the chance that Sir Robert was not the intended victim. Cedric, can you remember who served the drinks last night? Who gave Sir Robert his – well, parting glass?”

My brother in law shook his head but Sir Reginald could answer: “I gave him the glass.”

For a moment I stared at him before it dawned on me that this did not necessarily mean he had poured it. And indeed, Musgrave had only passed on the glass as it was handed down the table, from the butler, who filled the glasses, to Professor Peverell, Mrs Summerly, Charles Atwell, Mrs Coward, Mr Whitshaw, Miss Wilson, Sir James de Clency, Lady Imogen over to Reginald Musgrave and then to Sir Robert. As Sir Robert celebrated his birthday he, of course, was to be served first, so there was little risk involved someone else might take the poisoned glass. So, the murderer could be any of those people. Two names especially caught my attention – the names Summerly and Whitshaw, both of which were mentioned in Harriet’s telegram, and while Mr Whitshaw sat further down the table at least Mrs Summerly could have tried to kill the younger Atwell. It was definitely worth looking into it.

Still, something bothered me about my wife’s information. If Charles Atwell had seduced a young woman who was now pregnant with his child, there was little sense in killing him. What would make sense was to force him into marriage to save her from certain ruin, while if he was dead there was no way out for the girl. Then again, this could as well be an act of brutal revenge for destroying the lady’s chances with a member of the high aristocracy. According to Harriet her parents certainly had high expectations and high strung plans with their younger daughter.

“Do you have a reply, Sir?” the butler asked quietly. 

I had completely forgotten about his presence but at this point was glad to have been woken from my trail of thought in case I got lost on a completely wrong track. There was still a lot of information to be gathered and at this point, it would not do to focus on one thing in particular. Especially not as everything was still so very vague, so incredibly elusive. There were too many unknown factors as yet and as I was certain that none of the guests planned to stay much longer in the house, especially as the family was in mourning and any intrusion would be considered impolite, to interview them would be the next step to take. 

“Yes, I have a reply,” I answered the servants' question and reaching for the provided telegram form scribbled a quick note to my wife before enquiring after the passed out maid while at the same time requesting a room to be set up where I could talk to all the visitors, one after another.


	43. The Parting Glass - Part 4

Sherlock:

But first I decided to take a look at the maid, who to my information still was unwell and resting. When I entered the small attic chamber which she shared with another girl, my brother in law and Sir Reginald towing behind me, she was in a state between sleep and delirium and it was obvious that she was far more affected than anybody had led on. Concerned I entered, wishing Harriet had come with us or having asked Watson to join me, as a doctor was clearly needed. But as neither was there all I could do was entreat the butler to at least send for the apothecary if not preferably the doctor as quickly as possible. 

The room was dingy and cold, the tiny fireplace unlit, frost clung to the windows that were iced over and even in my coat I felt the chill. The only bit of comforting warmth that had been provided to the shivering maid had been a hot water bottle, now also cold and useless. With some irritation, I asked Musgrave to go and get the butler or housekeeper, but in his stead, Cedric, seemingly equally appalled by what he saw, went and truth be told I would not have liked to be on the receiving end of his current irritation. 

Sitting down on the edge of the narrow bedstead I felt for the girl’s carotid pulse and found it fluttering and irregular while her low breathing was ragged and laboured, which meant she suffered from the side effects of the poison and not some respiratory disease. Her muscles were affected, not her lungs. Had I first intended to only examine her quickly, it became clear that first, she would have to be taken care of lest she would die on us in the process.

“What do you think it is?” Reginald Musgrave asked, looking into the coal scuttle next to the grate and thankfully finding some coal in there began lighting a fire, though with some difficulty unused to the task at hand. Well, he had never been a very practical man after all.

“If I had to venture a guess I would say aconite. The symptoms are typical – at least with the maid, with Sir Robert, it is another matter, but then again in his case, there are some most unusual factors which might account for it. At any rate, aconite is relatively easy to apply and fast. It does have a bitter taste but mixed with mulled wine or punch it might be covered without much difficulty as very little of the poison suffices to kill a man.” I answered reaching into the inner pocket of my coat where since the Winchester murders I had taken to keep one or two pressed tablets of charcoal. 

“Is there an antidote?” Musgrave pressed further having, at last, ignited some crumpled paper and was now feeding the fire with bits of coal, careful not to smother it again.

“No, there is not, but this might just help flush it out of her system a bit faster and thus have her recover sooner.” I held up the tablet with my left while reaching for the water glass on her bedside table with my right. Fortunately, it was still more than half full.

At that moment Sir Cedric re-appeared, an elderly woman following him. That she was not happy with us was quite apparent, as her mouth was set in a thin line and her eyes glared daggers at my brother in law.

“You know we cannot stay at a maid’s bedside all day long just because she has taken ill.” she huffed. 

“No-one is asking you to, Mrs Murray, but this does not relieve you from the responsibility of checking on her comfort once in a while.” Cedric, who had been the one she had addressed, replied unrelentingly. 

“Well, we have other things to do with Sir Robert being dead and the police all over the house which is full of guests anyway. Do you have any idea in what state the whole of the household is? All of us thought she would be all right.”

Something akin to shame had appeared on her face as she saw the young woman lying there, pale, sweaty and shivering violently and her harsh features softened.

“When she had been brought up here she had been unconscious but woke shortly after and was allowed to stay in bed for the day. I had no idea she had taken a turn for the worse.” she carried on explaining, stepping towards the bed and gently stroked two wet strands of hair from the girl’s forehead. “By the way, your wife is asking for you, Sir Reginald.”

With a deep sigh, Musgrave got up from his knees and straightened himself before shrugging his shoulders and marching out of the room, softly closing the door behind him.

“Has a doctor been sent for?” I enquired, seeing that it would be a pointless task to question the sick woman while wondering if she would live to see the next day. 

“Yes, I have sent for our local doctor as Professor Peverell has his hands full with Lady Mary and Lady Mathilda.” at the mention of the second name she rolled her eyes showing her low opinion of the latter lady before adding: “I have also made sure a fresh supply of coal will be brought up, as well as a hot water bottle and a few extra blankets. Do you think it is worth trying to feed her some broth?”

“I can’t possibly say whether she can stomach anything or not, but I dare say it is worth a try,” I answered just when the expected maid arrived laden with the requested supplies. 

“Oh my, Lotty does look bad!” the short, stout woman exclaimed. “I will be right scared she dies while she is lying there, and me sleeping in the bed next to her without realising it.”

I could not help feeling her fears to be justified as I watched both domestics take care of the third. It was then when at last they pulled out her hands from between the sheets where they had been tucked away, that I saw her right hand was bandaged. 

“What happened there?” I asked, pointing at the slightly stained gauze, which obviously had been wound around the hand before she had to clean up the puddle of spilt poisoned punch Sir Robert had consumed, as red wine stains blotted the outside while a bit of dried brown blood shone through the layers.

“She cut herself this morning while putting away the dishes – we were all a bit nervous after last night and one glass had a crack and broke in her hand as she placed it on the tray,” Mrs Murray, the housekeeper, replied. “But surely this cannot account for her poorly state of health, sir.”

There I had to disagree. Aconite was a most potent poison even if only touched and if the girl had an injured hand, this accounted for her being affected this badly. As soon as she had been placed back into her narrow bed as comfortably as was possible, considering the ancient springs and thin mattress, I carefully took off the bandage and saw that indeed the punch had seeped through it and reached the surprisingly deep cut. Reaching for the washcloth hung over the rim of the cracked wash bowl I carefully cleaned it and wrapped it with a clean handkerchief of mine. 

xxx

When Cedric and I stepped back into the dark corridor to find our way back to the more comfortable part of the house he held me back.

“Holmes, do you think we are in danger here?”

As there was no use in beating about the bush I answered with a simple: “Possibly.”

After all, if the murderer had been desperate enough to kill Atwell at such a public display he might as well be desperate enough to do so again if we came too close to him – or her.

xxx

Harriet: 

The evening passed quietly and it was just as well as my back ached and I was tired to the bone, almost falling asleep in front of the fireplace where I had made myself comfortable to read a bit. But my mind was distracted by thoughts of my afternoon visitors and I was too wound up to find any desperately needed rest. I was still irritated and at the same time felt oddly sad about the Miss Summerly knowing her situation was a hopeless one. I had spent some time wracking my brain to come up with a solution but the only one I had come up with was confiding in her parents – which presumably lead to them pestering me with the very same request her sister had come up with. It was just like Charles Atwell to cause such kind of trouble, seducing a young lady only to leave her with child. But this thought I had to correct, as he had not exactly left her, moreover from Mrs Whitshaw’s report I had to even doubt he knew about the baby. 

Something else bothered me as well. The more I thought about the telegram I had sent to Sherlock, the more I got the feeling this had been done prematurely. A dead Charles Atwell would not have provided a solution to the situation in the least, quite the contrary, now that I thought about it. Heaving myself out of the well-used armchair my husband normally occupied I went downstairs to get myself a cup of tea and to bid everyone good night and if necessary send Tom to bed. Though the latter proved to be unnecessary as he had done so already out of his own accord – a first for him. Then again, it was late already and he had had a long and weary day.

I was about to ascend the stairs again when the doorbell rang hesitantly and with a sigh, I went to answer the door, tea in hand. To my utter astonishment, it was Miss Summerly, wrapped up tightly in a cloak a good deal too big for her.

“I am sorry to bother you once again, but I needed to speak with you without my sister present.” she apologised stepping into the hallway and out of the cold.

“If you have come to try and persuade me into aborting the child I can tell you now that I will not change my mind. I will not perform an abortion.” I told her shortly, my temper already flaring with indignity.

“No, that is not what I have come here for as I don’t want to kill my baby – Charles’ baby. Doctor Stephens, I want this child! What I do not want is to marry Lord Banbury, though. You know Mr Atwell and I thought you might be able to help me in regards to him. I love him so very much, I would do anything to engage his affections.”

This at least was something to work with. Her parents and sister might disagree, but after all, it was this lady’s happiness that was at stake here not theirs. Pressing the cup of tea into her hands I beckoned her to wait for me while I was fetching myself another one and then sat down on one of the steps to make sure Miss Summerly’s visit was but of short duration. Smiling shyly she took the hint and sat down next to me. Something in what she had said had caught my attention and I needed to ascertain whether my assumptions could possibly be correct.

“You said you would do anything to engage Charles Atwell’s affection, Miss Summerly.” I began. 

She nodded in agreement.

“Even go as far as to get yourself pregnant with his child so he would have to marry you?” 

By the way, the cup shook in her hands and she averted her eyes I knew I had hit the truth. 

“What else was I to do?” she at last asked. “He is utterly taken by the sister of Sir Cedric Stephrey, you might know him as well, considering you know Charles. He told me she is the only woman he has ever considered marrying and that as long as she is unmarried either to him or another man he would not give her up.”

“That is what Charles Atwell said?” I asked flabbergasted. I had always assumed he had wanted to marry me because it would have been convenient – not that it would have changed my mind in the slightest. Still, I was surprised. 

“Yes, he said she was the only woman who ever dared to stand up to him and he is insistent that he is not inclined to settle for a wife who has no backbone.”

Ah, there, at last, was a less flattering explanation which I could believe a great deal better than Charles Atwell being head over heels in love with me. 

“She must be a very formidable woman, don’t you think?” Mary Summerly asked a self-deprecating smile on her face. “What am I to such a lady?”

“Oh I know her and let me tell you, she is a handful. I doubt a man like Atwell could handle her. But you might be pleased to hear that she has recently got married to a very good man.”

The face of the young lady beside me lit up with hope and I had to suppress a chuckle. 

“But what am I supposed to do, Doctor?” she asked me, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed.

“I think telling Charles Atwell about the baby might be a good starting point, don’t you agree?”

Reluctantly she nodded and after finishing her tea asked: “And then?”

“We will see.”


	44. The Parting Glass - Part 5

Sherlock:  
A room had been set up for me to use and now that I sat there in front of the fire I have to admit I had little inclination to speak to any of the witnesses as yet. Where was I to start? Now with the people who had handled the glass was, of course, obvious, but it suddenly occurred to me, that the dynamics of the people as a group could be equally interesting and even more so when they were not yet alerted by my enquiries. No, it would be wiser to wait till after dinner, watch and observe the people before beginning to ask any questions. During the meal, I would be able to assess better what steps to take next. I told my brother in law as much.

Sir Cedric nodded thoughtfully, his mind obviously occupied with something.

“Holmes,” he, at last, spoke up, waking from his reverie, “it is evident that the murderer has to be one of us and I have to admit this thought is rather disturbing. Why would someone kill a friend?”

“Yes, Cedric, it is evident that it must be a person who was present last night and one who has had the opportunity to put something into Sir Robert’s glass.”

“Which unfortunately includes my wife,” he whispered tonelessly.

“Do you think she would do such a thing?” I asked, smiling, knowing the answer beforehand.

“No, of course not!” he cried out, then added with a grimace: “The only instance that I could imagine she would do such a thing as kill a man would be if someone hurts our family. But then I would rather expect her with a knife or pistol in her hand but certainly not something as subtle as poison.”

Without hesitation, I could say the same about Harriet. 

“From what I have heard of your wife I cannot imagine it either,” I assured my brother in law. “Even though I have never met the lady as yet. But of course, for the moment she, as well as eight other, equally innocent people will be under scrutiny. But in their case for their benefit, I dare say. In a situation such as this it can be equally important to be freed from any trace of guilt than to catch the real killer and both I will attempt. I have to say that I am equally sure that Sir Reginald is not a murderer either, nor Charles Atwell for that matter, but of course I will have to prove it also, which admittedly at the moment I cannot. Not yet.”

“Hopefully.” my wife’s brother sighed.

We did not have to wait long till the dinner bell chimed and everyone piled into the breakfast-parlour making it a bit crowded. It was quite understandable that no-one felt the courage to sit down in the dining room where the tragedy had struck not twenty four hours ago. A slender woman of barely middle height, with golden blond hair, came up to us, reaching for my companion's hands in an affectionate manner. Her pretty face was pale and she had been crying judging by her red-rimmed eyes. So this was Lady Imogene.

“There you are, at last, Cedric. I have been wondering what kept you,” she said with a slight reproach in her voice. “And I have been thinking, I think we should postpone our party. It is not very appropriate to celebrate not a week after a friend of ours has died, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, my dear. I agree with you there. The same thought had crossed my mind.” From his expression, I could see that his own event had been pretty much the furthest thing from his mind until she had mentioned it.

“This, Imogene, is Mr Sherlock Holmes,” Cedric carried on, with a smile.

“I am very pleased to meet you, at last, sir. I hope Harriet is well.”

“Yes, very well, thank you. She would have come, too, had she not been very busy at the moment.” I smiled as she carefully examined me curiously. 

“That I can well imagine!” Lady Imogene remarked with a slight grin, “And it would have been just as well. Lady Mary is still under shock and keeps to her bed and Lady Mathilda is suffering from nerves.”

I followed her gaze and saw a very pale woman with very dark hair and large fearful eyes clinging to Sir Reginald’s arm. She was a lot younger than I had imagined her to be, not much older than in her mid-twenties. For some reason I had thought Sir Reginald to have been married for some time considering that he was a man who had always taken his duties very seriously – and in his case, this meant producing an heir. Looking closer I wondered if that perhaps might be the reason his wife was so easily excited. I would not be surprised.

At that moment Charles Atwell entered and the room fell silent. As if in a trance he walked over to a seat, sat down and began eating without looking up once. It seemed the shock had at last set in. 

“Are you quite well, Sir Charles?” an extremely portly man enquired, stepping closer to him and putting his hand on the young man’s arm in a fatherly manner. 

“Don’t call me that!” Atwell cried out. “My father is barely cold and as long as he is not buried I will refuse to be called such.”

“But it is customary. You now bear the title.” the man insisted, sitting down next to his host.

Atwell turned to him, heat rising to his cheeks in anger: “It might be customary, Sir James, but I will have none of it. While you might have been delighted to carry your title after your father’s death, I am not. And now excuse me, I will retire early. Good night. Enjoy your meal.”

“Was that really necessary, Sir James?” another younger man with a good-humoured face enquired. 

“But he now is Sir Charles Atwell.”

“Oh come now, his father has just been murdered, the police has taken over the house and then this weird private detective they went to fetch this morning.”

“You mean Mr Holmes I presume,” Musgrave remarked.

“Yes, that one. I wonder where he is. He surely must be impatient to interview us, coming all the way from London, don’t you think?”

“He is standing right behind you, Whitshaw.” Sir Reginald answered, still supporting his wife.

“Oh.”

The man I took to be John Whitshaw turned around to face me with an expression of great embarrassment. 

“I am very glad to meet you, Mr Holmes.” he at last stammered.

“Yes, obviously.” I smiled suavely, reaching out my hand, which he hesitantly took.

“I presume I am right and you have come to question us all?” Whitshaw enquired carefully.

“Yes, but only after we have all eaten. For now, I am just another guest.”

A sturdy woman huffed. “Eating, I am not sure I can stomach anything. In this household one never knows who is going to be next.”

“Oh come now, mother, this is ridiculous.”

“You may say what you like, I am just glad that Susan is gone to London to look after her sister. Mary is so nervous because of her upcoming wedding, I wonder how she will make it through the ceremony.”

“She is nervous because she does not want to marry Lord Banbury. If you would just listen to her once you would know that.”

“Ta-ta! She is still young and has no judgement. Really, how can she know what is good for her at the age of one and twenty? See!”

Somewhat helplessly Whitshaw glanced in my direction, before shrugging his shoulders and sitting down with a sigh, helping himself to some roast beef and potatoes.

To say that the atmosphere was tense would have been an understatement, one could have cut through it with a knife. Sir Cedric, Lady Imogene and Sir Reginald along with Whitshaw and a Mr Devon Elliot tried to keep up a minimum of polite conversation but without much success. Eventually they, too, gave up on making the situation a bit more bearable. 

While eating I, however, watched the people around me very carefully. That they felt uncomfortable and trapped was as clear as daylight, and also that each suspected the one or other of their party. Suspicious glances were cast at the one or other person without fixing on any particular person. I wondered if that would have been any different had Charles Atwell stayed. Did they think he had killed his father? But if there were corresponding rumours they were not spoken about during dinner.

xxx

“I presume Professor Peverell was not at dinner?” I enquired as I returned to the room which had been sat up for me.

“No, he was not,” Cedric answered as he was about to escort his wife back to their room.

“I would actually like to start with him. Could you try and locate him, please? - Good night, Lady Imogene.”

“Good night. But please, considering you are family now, do call me Imogene.”

I bowed in acquiescence.

“Then good night, Imogene, I will speak with you in the morning. Cedric?”

“Of course, Holmes. I presume he is still with Lady Mary.”

He was not, however, nor was Peverell in his room and nobody seemed to have seen him since lunch. This could mean three things. He was guilty and had fled, he too had become a victim, which personally I thought unlikely as if someone had wanted to kill a bunch of people it would have been more efficient to simply poison the whole punch bowl and be done with it, or he simply had sought some solace and did not want to be found for the moment. Personally, I hoped for the latter as after all I could not completely rule out the first two options. But as there was little to be done in regards to Professor Peverell, much to his wife’s worry and others concern, I decided to speak to Mr Whitshaw first. 

“I wanted to apologise for my very impolite words earlier at dinner.” he began as soon as he had stepped into the room.

“Never mind. I know many people who would agree with you completely – not least of all, myself. And I also understand that you felt the need to defend Charles Atwell.”

There he chuckled sadly: “Yes, it was quite tasteless of Sir James to insist on it. I went to school with Charles and though he is not exactly an amiable person he is a decent man, Mr Holmes.”

I nodded thoughtfully.

“What can you tell me about last night, Mr Whitshaw?”

“Not much I am afraid. Up to the moment where Sir Robert dropped dead, it was an ordinary party of friends – not that we are all friends, I have to say.”

“What do you mean by that?” I dug deeper.

“Only that while we are – or rather were - all friends and acquaintances of Sir Robert we are not necessarily close to any others of the party.”

“What was your relation to Sir Robert?”

“We were good acquaintances. My father’s estate is about six miles from here on the other side of Petersfield and we had often hunted together before I got married and moved to London. Fox hunting was a particular passion of Sir Robert’s.” he answered, an expression of sadness crossing his face as he remembered all the carefree times he had spent with the dead man.

“You would not know if Sir Robert had any enemies?”

Whitshaw seemed to ponder on the question for a moment before answering, his words most carefully voiced.

“No, I don’t know of him having any enemies, but I have heard rumours. Till now I have to admit I did not pay them any heed, but his murder has changed that. - I heard whispers that Sir Robert in his position as magistrate had not been averse to rule in favour of whatever party was willing to pay the greater amount of money. But I cannot say how true these rumours really are. Sometimes it is just envy that leads to such slanders and still, it might be important.”

If that was the case, there was a very good motive for many a man to kill the man. If he really had misused his authority it should be possible to find out. And also if one of the thus wronged people had been present the previous night.

“You have helped me a great deal, Mr Whitshaw. I thank you.” I dismissed him. “Could you please send in your mother in law.”


	45. The Parting Glass - Part 6

Sherlock:  
Mrs Summerly walked into the room with an expression of great annoyance and self-importance.

“I really do not see why you would want to talk to me, Mr Holmes. It is not as if I would murder anyone,” she declared with decision, plunking down into the armchair opposite of mine. 

“I never said you would, madam.” I appeased her. “But you might have observed something that is of importance. If you could perhaps recall last night and give me your impression of it.”

Instantly she relaxed while on the other hand, her self-importance grew to yet another level. She was short, but stout, and not in a flattering way, with a pudgy face and beady, observant eyes. As little as I liked her, if someone had seen something at all, it presumably would be this lady – unless she had been too busy observing something completely irrelevant for the case that is.

“Oh for sure I have seen a good many things going on. Mr Elliot was violently flirting with Mrs Wilson. And what shall I tell you? Both of them were absent when Sir Robert dropped dead!”

Oh, joy! I had unleashed a beast and if I wanted to have any information at all, I had to let it run wild for the moment. I did not give much credit to the two people not having been present at that time of night. Not everyone liked to stay up so late and as far as I remembered a little bit of flirting was quite a usual occurrence at a dinner party and at any rate, neither of the two people had handled the dead man’s drink, whatever they had been up to during the murder.

“And then there was Charles Atwell, who was his usual unpleasant self. Odd young man. Can you believe it, my younger daughter wanted to marry him. But I told her that she could do much better, and what shall I tell you, now she is engaged to be married to Lord Banbury! Yes, THE Lord Banbury.”

At that moment I thanked God for my own wonderful mother in law, as formidable as she was, she was also amiable and certainly not a gossip. I had to tell her on occasion. 

Before I could throw in a word, Mrs Summerly carried on with her ceaseless chatter however and I had to pay close attention lest something of importance might escape me in this flood of nonsense which currently threatened to drown me.

“As said, Charles Atwell was highly unpleasant. I had the misfortune to sit next to him and he dared tell me he is not in the slightest interested whom my Mary is going to marry. He could at least have pretended to be happy for her. Are you always fidgeting with that ring of yours?”

I glanced down at my hands. I had indeed fiddled around with my wedding ring as while listening to her ceaseless chatter, I had tried to separate the important from the unimportant information that was currently thrown at my feet, the former still conspicuously absent, however.

“It seems a habit nowadays. Sir James was continuously playing with his signet ring as well, the whole evening long. An ugly old fashioned thing that. Very chunky and impractical, but he seems to be quite partial of it. I asked him if I may have a closer look, but he refused point blank, said he could not take it off. Well anyway, nice man that, though he seemed a bit absent last night. Then again, no surprise in this weather, is it? I have been feeling slightly off lately as well. I am really looking forward to returning to London. I have so much to prepare still. And my Mary so nervous about her upcoming wedding. She is a bundle of nerves.”

I wondered why that was…

Mrs Summerly’s ramblings went on and on and after little more than an hour I had given up hope that anything of importance would come from her. She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece and startled.

“Oh dear, is it this late already? I am most sorry, but I have to go to bed. At my time of life I am dependent on my beauty sleep.” she smiled coquettishly before heaving herself out of her seat and left with an air as if she had single-handedly solved the mystery.

People like her were the most trying to work with in my line of work. One wrong word, carelessly thrown in, and they would shut up like an oyster, while on the other hand, the benefit of letting them speak out of their own accord was but minute. Tired I ran my hand across my face, deciding that perhaps, for now, I should call it a day. 

But no sooner had I decided to do so when Sir Reginald appeared.

“Musgrave!”

“I presumed you wanted to talk to me as well, Holmes. After all, I have handed Sir Robert his cup of hemlock, have I not?”

“Yes. But unless you knew what it contained I dare say you have little reason to feel guilty about it.”

He gave me a weak smile.

“You have always been a rational man, but I cannot make so lightly of it, I am afraid.”

“Cedric told me you have heard rumours about Sir Robert, regarding money.” I began, keeping in mind what Whitshaw had told me.

“Yes. They quite disconcerted me, I have to say.”

“Was it about Sir Robert taking money to rule in favour of one party or another in his work as a magistrate?”

Reginald Musgrave stared at me aghast.

“Yes.” he stammered. “I did not pay them much heed but was concerned enough that I asked Sir Cedric what he would do if, hypothetically, something like that came to his attention. I did not say I was speaking about Sir Robert however, so it is beyond me how he could have guessed it.”

“Apparently you kept your eyes on the man all the while you spoke to Sir Cedric,” I told him, at which he laughed out.

“I have never been very good at the art of deception. I was not aware you knew Sir Cedric. He said you went to school together?”

“Yes, we did. I also happen to be married to his sister.” I grinned at his flabbergasted expression.

“You of all people are married? - You are not having me on, are you?”

“No. I have been reeled in at last. Most willingly so, I have to admit.”

My mind strayed to my wife and I could feel a smile spread across my face, but only for the shortest of moments as I had one more question for my old friend.

“Where and how have you heard about these rumours, Musgrave?”

“As a magistrate myself I was applied to by a young woman who claimed she had been wronged. It was about a small piece of land she said she had inherited from her father. The other party claimed it had been sold to them but were unable to produce any valid document to prove such a claim. Now said lady has very few means, while her opponent is a wealthy farmer and though in my opinion the matter was clear and it should have been ruled in her favour it was not. Now, this might, of course, be for various reasons, but it seems that Atwell had offered her assistance if she paid him for it. This, of course, is highly unethical and I could not believe it of Sir Robert. But somehow, in light of what has happened, I might have to re-assess my judgement. I would be very sorry though if it were true, I have to say.”

“Still you could not completely put it past him?”

“No.”

xxx

Harriet:

I had slept badly without my husband being there, and the problem which had been laid at my door had not helped either. I got up at first light, feeling cranky, tired and slightly nauseous as if I was coming down with a cold. 

Sitting down on Sherlock’s desk I began writing a letter to him, explaining the new development in regards to Miss Mary Summerly and if he perhaps could inform Charles Atwell of his impending fatherhood. I was aware that this was not exactly fair on my husband, but unless I went down to Sussex myself there was little else I could do. I had first considered writing to Atwell himself but then had thought the better of it. This situation needed too much explaining and perhaps even coaxing the man than to rely on a simple missive which accidentally might end up on a pile of unread correspondence.

It took me some time already to explain everything to Sherlock as it was and by the time I had at last finished my epistle Mrs Hudson served breakfast. I was not entirely sure whether I was hungry or not, or if I could stomach anything, the nausea had increased and at the sight of the food, my stomach revolted. What turned it, in the end, was the smell of the steaming coffee. Quickly I dashed into the bathroom, just in time. 

“Dear me, are you all right?” I heard our landlady enquire. 

Retching I nodded, feeling already better for it. When I was done I rinsed my mouth before explaining: “There has been a bout of flu down at St. Anne’s and I am not much surprised I am at last coming down with it as well. But I am fine, I have no fever and I already feel a lot better. I will try and eat something and then send a note over to the hospital to tell them I won’t be coming in today.”

“If I may say so, Mrs Holmes, it might be better to tell them you won’t be coming in for the rest of the week. You have been looking awfully pale these last few days.” Mrs Hudson advised and for once in my life I took it. 

I WAS exhausted and I did not feel well. I might not have a temperature, but in this instance, I would neither do myself a favour by going to work nor my patients. No, a bit of rest would do me good and I wondered whether I should drive over to Chiswick instead of staying here. A bit of research would be a welcome diversion and I still had some sewing to do, at last finishing off my new travelling costume after my old one had held so many unpleasant memories that I had discarded of it.

The Summerly sisters, however, seemed to have a knack for turning up at the oddest of times and so, when I stepped out of the door and onto the sidewalk, a cab came to a halt in front of me and Mrs Whitshaw climbed out of it.

“Ah, Dr Stephens, how convenient to catch you here. It saves me from going to that dreadful place you are working in.” she cried.

I most decidedly thought otherwise. Her sister I had found to be surprisingly pleasant if perhaps a little stupid, but Mrs Whitshaw I did not like at all.

“And, have you found a solution to our problem?” 

What did she think? That I spend the whole of my waking hours to ponder on their idiotic problems? Well, I had, but she should not take it for granted.

“I have given you a solution yesterday. It was ‘call off the wedding’, remember?” I asked testily. 

“I don’t think the street is the right place to discuss this,” she remarked coldly. 

Reluctantly I led her into the house, but with her, the trick with the stairs did not work. Undeterred Mrs Whitshaw strode up the stairs and entered our sitting room. 

“And I have told you yesterday, that that is not a solution, Doctor.”

“Postpone it then, till after the baby is born.”

“Impossible!” she cried out dramatically. “One cannot simply postpone a wedding to a lord. It is very clear that you have not the slightest concept of how the nobles of this country handle their affairs.”

I stared at her before starting to laugh. 

“I fail to see what is so funny.” 

“Nothing, actually. Just your unwillingness to accept the fact, that there are but three ways out of your sister’s predicament without completely destroying her reputation and abortion not being one of them, as it happens to be illegal and on top of that more often than not highly dangerous to the mother. The first option is to call off the wedding to Lord Banbury completely with either having her go abroad for the duration of the pregnancy or secondly apply to the actual father to marry her and the third, and actually least favourable one I dare say, is to postpone the wedding to his Lordship till after the baby is born and act as if nothing has ever happened.”

As I said these words the letter in my pocket felt like lead, but I would post it nonetheless. Miss Summerly did not want to marry the man her parents and sister insisted on as she loved another and even though I did not think too highly of Atwell, from what I had heard about Lord Banbury, he was by far the better choice of husband. What did I care for an ambitious sister who in turn cared nothing about her younger sister’s feelings? No, it was Miss Mary Summerly who needed my help, not Mrs John Whitshaw and I would act accordingly.

“Then I think we have nothing further to say to one another.” Mrs Whitshaw, at last, said with a huff and turned on her heel. 

“Dear me, what kind fury was that?” I suddenly heard Mrs Hudson behind me. She had been busy cleaning the grate, unnoticed by either of us and shrugging my shoulders I answered, grinning: 

“An angry one, Mrs Hudson. I have to say I was slightly disappointed I had expected more vigour.”

The smell of the polish the landlady had used on the brass fittings made my stomach turn once again and I suddenly felt quite stupid as the realisation of what was really the matter with me dawned on me at last. Now I just needed proof.

When I, at last, was on my way to my house in Chiswick I was certain of the diagnosis. Part of me was terrified and yet I could not help smiling happily. Still, this left me with the quite pressing problem whether I should continue at St. Anne’s or not, and if the latter, if there was something else I could do in my line of profession. Well, as my mother always said, a solution would be found in good time and from experience, I knew this to be quite true. 

My letter was posted and I was sure that by midday it would have reached my husband. I entered my home, had a cup of tea with Martha and then began finishing my dress. The skirt was quickly hemmed and the buttons equally quickly sewed on and after little more than three hours I was done and quite happy with my handiwork. Yes, this would do, at least as long as it fitted me. Suddenly I was tearing up for no reason whatsoever and for almost ten minutes I was unable to stop sobbing, till my mood lifted again and I actually began laughing at my own silliness. Oh dear! I already began to feel sorry for my poor husband having to put up with this for the foreseeable future.


	46. The Parting Glass - Part 7

Sherlock:

After my conversation with Musgrave, I went up to my bedroom and pondered on the case for several hours after, turning over the facts in my mind over and over again. 

So what did I have to work with? At first glance not much, but at least the number of suspects had already been reduced to nine instead of thirty and a motive had turned up, showing the dead man in a completely new light. Yet, I could not make a connection to any of the suspects. Professor Peverell was missing and no-one knew where he had gone to, which was highly suspicious but did it prove his guilt? I had been told Sir Robert had looked at him in his last moments, but the man was a medic and it might just as well be that he had sought help from the only man of whom he knew was capable of it. - Had it not been a most potent poison. A poison, if I was right in my assumptions, of which only a small dose was needed to kill a man. 

Something was nagging at the back of my mind. I felt as if I was overlooking some vital piece of information and yet I could not lay my finger on what it was. But there was something, hidden underneath all the gossip Mrs Summerly had showered me with, I was certain of it. Pondering thus I reduced my stash of tobacco quite considerably, but to no avail

xxx

It was in the small hours that I decided to rest a bit, but at first light, I was up again and ventured downstairs. As expected everything was still quiet, none of the houseguests had gotten up yet and the servants only just began to stir. Pulling the curtains of the breakfast parlour aside I saw that it was snowing heavily again, adding to the already substantial amount of snow covering the ground. It was a lovely and serene sight which made the grimness of the murder committed here stand out even more so. 

Suddenly I felt a movement behind me and upon turning around was face to face with a middle-aged man with dishevelled hair and stubble on his chin, looking tired and weary. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he looked as if he had slept in his clothes. From the pocket of his waistcoat, the top of a syringe was visible and he had a stethoscope around his neck, half disguised by his untied cravat.

“I am sorry, I thought you to be the butler, but I presume you must be Mr Sherlock Holmes,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose as if would help him stay awake.

“Yes, and you must be the missing Professor Peverell.” I smiled.

“Missing?” he yawned. “Why? I was here all the time.”

Realising where he must have spent the night I enquired: “How is the girl?”

“Dead.” he shrugged. “The arrhythmia of her heart increased during the night and at last she went into cardiac arrest. I injected her with some digitalis, but her body was too weak to deal with yet another poisonous substance, I am afraid. Do you happen to know how Lady Mary is faring?”

“No, I am afraid I do not.”

“Then I will check on her and hope that by the time I return I will be able to get a cup of strong coffee somewhere in this house.”

I smiled, before turning around in search of the kitchen. 

Returning to the breakfast room with two cups of coffee and a couple of ginger snap biscuits I waited for the Professor. He returned only moments later, his face bearing a frowning expression as if he was deep in thought.

“Oh, you are still here.”

“And with coffee and biscuits,” I pushed one cup in his direction which produced a small chuckle from him. 

“Thank you, Mr Holmes. I really appreciate it. The last twenty-four hours were rather trying and slowly but surely I start to feel my age. So, you are Mycroft Holmes’ younger brother?”

Admittedly I was startled. I had had no idea that the professor knew my brother.

“Yes,” I answered, surprised.

“We are both members of the Diogenes Club, you know. I am not a regular visitor there, but on occasion, I really appreciate the place.” Peverell explained, eyeing the biscuits.

“Yes, sometimes it is a nice change to be completely ignored by each and everyone, while equally allowed to ignore them in turn. Being in good company without the hassle of idle conversation,” I replied with a slightly sarcastic undertone. 

“That was put very aptly, Mr Holmes. And while I can see that you disagree, there are times when I dislike brooding all on my own, while at the same time I am not in the mood to talk about what is going on in my mind. I think that is what we all have in common at the Diogenes. The ghosts that haunt our minds are both too fierce to deal with them alone and too complex to talk about them to anyone.” he smiled. 

I had never seen it this way, but now that I thought about it, it was quite an accurate description of my brother’s state of mind. With his matter of fact attitude and rationality, I often forgot that underneath his rough and no-nonsense exterior there was a highly sensitive man, far more sensitive than myself. It was what made him good at what he was doing, while at the same time took a great deal out of him emotionally. 

Drinking my own coffee I brought my mind back to the matter at hand and when the professor had put down his cup likewise I carefully began my enquiries.

“On the night of the murder, was there anything that struck you as being odd?”

“No, not at all. It was a pleasant party – as pleasant as dinner parties go when one is not in the mood for it.”

“And you were not?”

“No.” he answered flatly.

“Was there a particular reason for that?” 

“Of course there was. I had just lost one of my patients - one I had great hopes of curing. But all my efforts had come to nothing. He died and I am afraid I will have to start all over again.”

“What is your field of expertise?”

“Cancerous growths. A devilish malady. The death rate is incredibly high and no treatment seems to work. One can take out the tumours only to find them growing back or spreading to another part of the body. And still, like with your profession, which I can imagine is trying at times as well, someone has to do it.”

“How did you know Sir Robert?” I enquired, wondering if the man had been ill after all.

“I am from Petersfield, born and bred. Our paths crossed once in a while and as we shared some interests we became friends, many years ago. I have to admit it has cooled down a bit over time. I eventually got married, moved to London and pursued my career, while he stayed – well for him there was no need to take up a profession. But we were still on friendly terms and frequently saw each other. He visited me when he was in town and I visiting him when in Petersfield, where my older sister still lives.”

“How was he like?”

“Mostly cordial, but sometimes short tempered. His sense of humour was a bit peculiar, very rough and sometimes hurtful. He never knew when he was going too far, particularly of late. Should you wonder why young Charles is such a sullen young man, he has often been on the receiving end of his father’s jokes. Some might think it silly, but Atwell had a habit of humiliating his son – and wife - quite frequently. Though I doubt young Charles thought them that funny. For someone on the outside, it appeared to be good-natured teases, but Sir Robert had a knack for hitting very close to home - with only the person knowing who was his target. Everyone else would have thought his to be jesting.”

This indeed was news to me. 

“Have you ever been on the receiving end?” I dug deeper.

“Once or twice,” Peverell answered calmly. “It was one of the reasons why our friendship drifted somewhat apart. I lost my first wife due to cancer and he thought it rather hilarious that this would happen to me of all people. ‘One-nil for the disease, my friend.’ he had said. ‘When do you go in for round two?’ - that was at my wife’s funeral. Needless to say, I was very angry at the time. But he at least had the decency to apologise and I left it at that for the sake of our long-standing friendship.”

I was speechless. Going too far indeed. 

“Is there anything else you would like to know, Mr Holmes?” Peverell, at last, asked, as we both had fallen silent, sitting at the table brooding.

“Only two more things. What do you think killed Sir Robert?”

“Judging by the girl’s symptoms I would say aconite. Sir Robert’s symptoms have been slightly unusual, but there might be an underlying cause for it. He was not exactly young and he did not take great care of his health. An undetected heart condition might have contributed to his quick death. Not that anyone could have helped him anyway.”

“He had tiny shards of glass in his throat, the largest about a quarter inch in length. Could it have contributed to his speedy death.”

“Possibly. I have to admit I cannot say for sure. You might be the better judge from what I have heard about you, Mr Holmes. And the second?”

“Do you know if Sir Charles had any enemies. - I mean real ones that wished him dead, not the ones who merely wished him far away.”

“He was a powerful man, Mr Holmes. I would be surprised if he had not had any enemies. Though who would go as far as to kill him, I cannot say.”

Tired he got up from his chair, stretching his back.

“These beds they have the servants sleep in are nothing but torture devices!” he mumbled before leaving me behind sitting at the table.

xxx 

As the morning advanced the people within the house began to stir. Sir Robert’s body was removed, as was the girl’s and I had a short talk to the local inspector.

“I am very glad you have come down to help us out, Mr Holmes. Not that I think it to be a murder at all, but as the suspicion has been voiced I, of course, have to look into it. But mark my words, it will be nothing but a very unfortunate heart attack. Sir Robert was a very respected man around here and his death is a great loss for the community, there is not a man in the world who would have wanted to see him dead. I just hope his son will be just as able a man as his father was.” he had told me before leaving again.

I was bewildered at such a display of ignorance, how could he completely overlook the fact that the maid who had cleaned up the poisoned drink had also died? Seeing him bustle around importantly, I decided it was not worth the hassle to argue with the man. 

Continuing with my enquiries I had no more success in getting closer to the bottom of the mystery than the police at the moment, however, as neither Miss Wilson nor Mrs Coward could tell me anything of any significance. - The evening had been pleasant, the food good, the dresses of the ladies present most elegant and the alcohol plenty. Both had been quite tipsy by the time they toasted to Sir Robert’s health and afterwards had been in hysterics when he had collapsed. Sighing I lit myself another pipe. If only I could recall what it was that had struck me as odd last night. But no matter how much I wrecked my brain I could not remember. Annoyed with myself I paced the room till lunch was served and only Sir James and Imogene were left to be interviewed, the latter having been busy all morning with organising the household and in Lady Mary’s absence keeping everything together. I was quite impressed with my sister in law, I have to say.

Before I could rise from the lunch table the butler appeared with a letter for me. Curiously I opened it and was momentarily at a loss as to what to do. Glancing over to where Charles Atwell sat I decided that a direct approach might be best and getting up I asked him to join me.

“What is the matter? Have you found out something yet?” he enquired, looking more composed than the previous evening. 

“I think you might want to sit down, Mr Atwell. I have some news for you, but they have little to nothing to do with the case.”

“Then what is it?” 

“You know Miss Mary Summerly, I presume?”

He looked nothing but bewildered at first, then nodded.

“What is your relationship with her, if I may ask?”

“What has that to do with the case? - Unless of course, you presume I have been the intended target… She is a very good girl, much different from her sister and this horrible mother of hers. Aside from that, we have occasionally met at the one or other party, we have been flirting a bit, but there is no relationship between us.”

The slight blush spreading over his face showed that his mind had wandered in the very direction I wanted it to be in.

“But you have slept with her.” This was not a question, but a statement.

His head shot up and he stared at me open-mouthed before hesitantly nodding, mouth but a thin line.

“Do you love her?”

“Let’s say it that way, I appreciate her open manners and her persistence,” he answered with a lopsided smile. “I like her company.”

“And I take it you would not like to see her ruined?” 

“Of course not!”

“Then I suggest you pack a few things and get the two of you to Scotland.”

“Excuse me?” Charles Atwell gaped at me open-mouthed.

Instead of repeating myself I handed him my wife’s missive and when he had finished reading it he looked up at me with an unfathomable expression.

“Good God, what have we done?”

“Nothing other young people have not done either. At least you have the means to put things to right.”

“And I will, Mr Holmes. I will! It is the least I can do. I might not be a very likeable one, but I have always tried to be an honourable one. - And obviously failed. Now all I can do is try and set things to right.- but I can hardly leave now, can I?”

“Now is as good a time as any, if not better. Everyone is distracted by your father’s death and if you keep to your room, no one would wonder about it. I’ll make your excuses if necessary. Her parents are trapped here for the moment and will not get in the way – and her sister might be deterred by my wife if necessary. You elopement will cause a scandal, of course, but only a minor one. And I doubt very much that Lord Banbury will challenge you to a duel.”

“No, me neither.” Atwell grinned, “Pathetic coward that he is.”

He got up and from his attitude, it was clear that he would pack straight away and leave within the hour.

“Mr Holmes?” he had turned around at the door, smiling – the first real smile I had seen on his face. 

“Yes?”

“I am glad it is you Harriet has married. No lesser man would have deserved her. She is an exceptional woman, and while I greatly admired her, I would not have been able to make her happy. I can see that now.”

And with that, he left the room before I could make any reply.


	47. The Parting Glass - Part 8

The Parting Glass – Part 8

Harriet:

I was surprised to hear my doorbell and even more surprised to find Charles Atwell to be my visitor.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs Holmes, but your landlady at Baker Street was so kind as to give me this address. It is a nice little home.” he smiled warmly. “Just right for the little family, I am sure you will soon have.”

Puzzled I looked at him. How could he know? Only then it occurred to me that he was merely referring to any potential children Sherlock and I might have in the future, not the one I now knew I was carrying.

“Yes, it is,” I answered. “Why don’t you come in?” 

“I have just come here to thank you. This is perhaps not what I would have chosen for myself, but I have seen only this morning how an affectionate wife can make a man quite content. If my wife ever wrote such a letter to me, as you have written to your husband, I would be the happiest of men, Mrs Holmes. It is not so much your open declarations of your affection for him, but the small remarks, concerns and jokes you are sharing with one another. I might not be in love with Miss Summerly at present, but I am hopeful it will change over time.”

“She is very much in love with you, though,” I replied, puzzled. “You read the letter?”

“Your husband gave it to me. I think he did not know how to explain the situation and neither would I, had I been in his position. It is a subject most men would not know how to address, I have to say.”

I laughed: “Typical, indeed!”

“This letter, more than anything else has made me quite determined to be a good husband myself and to be as happy as I possibly can. Thank you!” he bowed deeply and I felt another onslaught of tears threatening to surface. I had not expected so much integrity and courtesy from him.

“I take it you are on your way up north?” I snivelled, trying to suppress my tears.

“We are. I have just picked her up, thank God she has such a trusted maid – I was really afraid to run into that dragon of a sister - and we are now on our way to catch our train.”

Chuckling I glanced over his shoulder to see Miss Summerly sit in the waiting carriage, her face excited though a bit anxious at the same time, when she saw me glancing at her, she lifted her hand and gave a slight wave. That Charles Atwell would act so quickly, I had not expected, but I was glad all the same.

Atwell bowed again and left, a spring in his step that showed what weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and which had me wonder. Not that I thought he had killed his father, but whether Sir Robert in truth had been less amiable than I had thought, while his son, in turn, was more of a decent man than I had taken him to be, despite his abrasiveness. 

xxx

Sherlock:

When I, at last, got around talking to Sir James he was nowhere to be found either. Sighing I walked through the house and at last found him in Sir Robert’s study where he sat at the desk, some papers in front of him which he studied intensively. When he, at last, looked up he seemed surprised to find me standing in the doorway, watching him. 

“Sir Charles asked me to look over the papers,” he explained, got up, which with his bulk was not an easy feat, and rounded the massive desk. “I hope this enquiry will not last much longer, Mr Holmes. The family deserves to get some peace at last. What an unpleasant situation! And I have to get back home as well. It is not as if all of us can afford to be idle.”

“I do my utmost to find Sir Robert’s murderer, I can assure you.” I tried to appease him, taking a seat by the fireplace which thankfully had been lit. With a frown, I saw some paper ashes in the grate among the coal.

Sir James’ eyes had followed mine and he shrugged: “Some scraps I have got rid off. It is difficult enough to go through a man’s papers anyway without having notes amongst them reminding one of stocking the wine cellar or ordering candles, don’t you agree?”

He leaned back in his chair and began fidgeting with his signet ring, much as I was in the habit of doing with my wedding band. I did not answer his at any rate rhetorical question, but began with my usual questions, whether something had happened during the evening, if there had been any quarrels he knew about or if Sir Robert had any enemies. To all my questions he replied he knew nothing bad about the man and certainly nothing that could lead to his murder. 

“And you have never heard of Sir Robert misusing his position as a magistrate?”

De Clency looked wary but shook his head decisively. 

“No, never, he would never take money to rule in anybody's favour.”

He did not realise his mistake and I did not venture to point it out, but it was obvious that he did know about the rumours – or even perhaps whether they were true or not. He had gone through the papers after all and might have come across something. As I began to doubt he really had been asked by Charles Atwell to do so, especially after last night, he could either have attempted to save what was left of Sir Robert’s reputation, hide possible evidence that he had made use of the man’s corruption himself or destroy evidence that showed he had a motive to kill the man. I would have to apply to Lady Mary to be allowed to go through the papers myself and soon, did I not want the man to get another chance of destroying anything that might prove to be important. 

I had not done so before, because I had reason to doubt the dead man had kept any papers of his cases around in his house, as mainly the documents recording a trial were stored at the local courthouse. But what if he had kept some of them here after all? 

“So Sir Robert was an upright man?” I asked.

“Through and through, Mr Holmes. Other than his son, I have to say. Really, not wanting to be called Sir Charles!” Sir James huffed, looking indignant. “It is an honour, after all.”

He might think so, but Charles Atwell was clearly of a different opinion and I had to agree with him, considering that his father had just been murdered it bordered tastelessness to insist on calling him by his father’s title just yet.

“Now if you will excuse me. I need to prepare to leave. I have to be in London by tomorrow afternoon, whether you have caught the murderer or not.”

He stalked from the room, leaving me behind. Which was just as well. I rang for the butler and asked whether he could obtain the lady’s permission for me to go through the papers and within less than ten minutes my request was granted.

“You have not coincidentally observed something odd?”

“I presume you mean on the night Sir Robert died?” the butler, who had lingered behind, presumably to oversee my work, answered.

“Yes.”

“The answer will be ‘no’, sir. Everything was as always. Everyone was cheerful, most were slightly drunk by around ten, the atmosphere was loose and the humour got a bit more feisty. Sir Robert sang after which everyone was guessing what it had been he had sung and that was that.”

“No tension?” I dug deeper.

“Mrs, Summerly and Mr Charles had a bit of a fight, but it was but superficial. I have to admit I did not quite catch what it was about and at any rate it only lasted for a minute or two, but the lady made it pretty clear she was displeased for another half hour,” he replied with a slight grimace.

“I heard Sir Robert could be a quite merciless tease?”

“Yes, he was doubting Musgrave for not having any children yet, joked about Sir Cedric’s spinster sister before making fun of Lady Imogene for the choice of colour for her gown and having Sir James on with his signet ring, saying it decidedly made him a ‘poof’. Sorry, but that were his words.”

“No need to apologise.”

“How did they take it?”

“Musgrave was somewhat nettled and his wife looked mortified, but Sir Cedric, good man that, threw in that a man who himself had only managed to produce one child and only after six years of marriage should not judge too hastily after all Sir Reginald only got married little more than a year ago. To this retort Sir Robert replied that with Lady Harriet, that is Sir Cedric’s sister, he would be most embarrassed, abrasive and frigid woman she is for not wanting to marry his son. At which Sir Cedric stared at him before laughing heartily and saying that Sir Robert should perhaps consider that it was more the groom and his family his sister objected to, not a general unwillingness to marry as she by now was actually married happily. Sir Robert huffed, and I don’t think he believed it, but as he could not disprove it he eventually began to tease Lady Imogene. Her dress was a very vivid green colour, which actually suited her well if I may say so, she just looked him over and said that it would be lucky then she was wearing the dress and not him as she agreed, on him the colour would look ridiculous. Everyone cheered at that and even Sir Robert chuckled. It was sometime later that he began teasing Sir James about the ring. His reaction was an odd one I have to say. He took it very much to heart and got up, went outside, even though it was freezing, and smoked a cigar on the front steps. Only twenty minutes later did he re-appear.”

Now, most of these teases were clearly just that, even though clearly intended to belittle the people addressed. I was actually quite irked by the unflattering description of my wife, but could easily imagine that Harriet had acted very coldly towards them – particularly after the unwanted offer of marriage. He was right however, Sir James’ reaction was a peculiar one. Was there something in it, perhaps?

“Did you ever have any differences with your late master?” I asked after some moments of contemplation.

“Yes. Mainly work related. He sometimes took advantage of the girls, like so many other masters.”

“And personally?” I enquired.

“Only once, sir. Two years back,” he admitted, though without hesitating.

“And what was it about?” 

Taking a deep breath the butler lifted his chin defiantly before answering with a firm voice: “I had fallen in love with one of the maids and she with me. It was our night off and I had met her for a walk. Sir Robert had been in town and as the weather was nice he had decided to walk half the way home, sending on the carriage. He found us in a fairly compromising situation, sir.”

I smiled: “Unlike many others, I am fully aware that even servants are human beings who long for a bit of tenderness. Is the lady still working here?”

“Yes. And the lady is now my wife.” an expression of great affection crossed his features.

“So Sir Robert warned you off?”

“No, he came into the servants' hall and with a dirty grin on his face asked if my rod was done prodding the maid for any leaks. Needless to say that after that remark our position was an awkward one. Especially for her. We got married a month later and since then things have quieted down considerably.”

“And your wife is still working here?” 

“Yes. Her mother lives in the village and she has no-one else in the world.”

“You would not know if sir Robert had any enemies?”

“None he took seriously, sir. He was not an easy man, but he was better than many others.”

I thanked him for his frankness and continued to go through the papers only to find that there was nothing to indicate a motive.

“You would not happen to know if Sir Robert had a safe somewhere?”

The butler pointed at a rather ugly still life and walking over to it, he opened a hidden compartment in which the safe was hidden.

“And the keys?”

The trusted servant shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea. He never carried them on him but kept hiding them around the house. They could be anywhere from the attic down to the cellar. It could take hours to locate them.” 

Sighing I took my set of picklocks out and sat to work. Twenty minutes later I had at last managed and the heavy door to the safe swung open only to reveal a set of three locked dispatch boxes. I glanced over to the butler who looked back at me with a wry expression before we both began to laugh.

“Let us hope we don’t encounter yet another locked nesting doll...” I mumbled as I began to manipulate one lock after the other till at last all three boxes were opened.

The first one contained nothing but legal papers regarding the estate. I flipped through them and found nothing of importance. The second was a bit more interesting, as it contained bankers drafts, all sporting considerable sums. But unless I found corresponding papers that showed the money was acquired illegally they, too, were of little value for me.

“Could you perhaps write down the names?” I asked my watchdog, who involuntarily had become my accomplice. 

If everything else came to nothing I would have to go through the court files. Hopefully, I would not have to resort to such measures.

The butler took the drafts and sat down at his late master’s desk making notes while I searched through the third dispatch box.

I had found a treasure trove! The last time I had seen such an impressive assemblage of incriminating papers of this kind, was the night Charles Augustus Milverton had been shot, just that these were notes of observations Sir Robert himself had made and which he seemed to keep for later use, other than Milverton, who had bought his material. It was unfortunate he had used abbreviations, however, and not names. But what I saw was devastating enough and provided a very, very good motive. Now I only had to look for matching initials and see if anything made sense.

I skipped dinner and began with my task straight away, up in the little bedroom I currently inhabited. Cross-legged I sat on the bed digging through the substantial pile.

‘17.5.1894: Saw SR enter brothel in Purley Street. Seems his wife is not to his taste after all. Never would have thought it of him, though.’ was one of the more harmless ones. A man visiting a brothel was not exactly scandalous. I put it aside on a pile where I kept the basically harmless stuff.

‘29.10.1894: Went to the pub and saw two men kissing behind an upstairs window. -Passionately! The one bloke seemed familiar. Was quite surprised to see SJ descend the stairs half an hour after I had entered. No wonder the one man looked familiar. Who would have thought SJ a sodomite?’ This I put on another stack, substantially smaller than the first, fortunately. The pile were all the highly volatile notes ended up. Information people would kill for.

‘12.12.1894: PP swapped a document at court. Quite curious as to what it is. 14.12.: He swapped his uncles will it seems. Ts-ts.’ With this one I was undecided as I did not know how much money was involved. But as no-one with the initials PP had been at the party it ended up on the first stack anyway.

This collection of incriminating notes went on and on, spanning a decade of various misdemeanour of the one or other kind, as said mostly harmless but a few indeed highly explosive. There was a little reason to doubt that Sir Robert used his information for the same reason Milverton had done, but that he intended to use them was clear enough. No-one kept notes of this kind if he did not mean to gain something or other by them. But what? Simple power, perhaps? 

Putting the harmless papers back into the dispatch box I once more went through the other pile to sort out those notes which might refer to some of the guests. Only one fit:

‘7.9.1887: Got it on good authority that GP killed his wife. And there he is always acting quite the moralist. Ha!’


	48. The Parting Glass - Part 9

Sherlock:  
Lighting my pipe I began thinking over the evidence, only to be interrupted as soon as I was onto my second pipe – by Mr and Mrs Summerly, who barged in without so much as knocking on the door.

“You must help us, Mr Holmes!” the lady cried out excitedly, her face a brilliant shade of red.

I was pretty sure to know what would come next. Their younger daughter had eloped. Good for her!

And sure enough: “My daughter Mary has disappeared without a trace. Gone! My dear Susan, Mrs Whitshaw that is, went up to her room only to find it empty. Mary was gone. They searched the whole house, but my dear child was nowhere to be found. You need to go to London straight away, Mr Holmes, and find her. Bring her back.”

Taking a deep breath I replied that I was busy at the moment and that in this instance she had to contact the police. 

“But that might lead to a scandal, Mr Holmes, and then perhaps Lord Banbury will not want to marry her any longer.”

“Perhaps she is with him,” I suggested.

“You think so? Oh, they are such lovebirds.” The lady smiled, while her husband’s mouth was set in a firm straight line, showing he did not believe in this possibility at all.

“Mr Holmes,” he, at last, said in a cold tone of voice - the first words I had ever heard him speak, “if we believed my daughter was visiting her betrothed we would hardly apply to you. If she had gone to visit Lord Banbury she would have said so openly, or at least left a message.”

“That might very well be, but as it is, I am currently busy here and considering the time, there is no possible way I would be in London before late tomorrow morning.”

“Then finish this unpleasant business here and leave with the earliest train tomorrow. It is getting tedious anyway to be stuck inside this house. One easily gets the impression it is us you suspect to have killed Sir Robert.” the man huffed.

“No, I will not go to London tomorrow, nor within the last few days, as I have been invited by my brother in law, to stay for a couple of days.”

“You give precedence to visiting your relatives instead of finding my daughter?”

“So it appears, Mr Summerly,” I replied calmly, emptying my pipe to re-stuff it.

“But Lord Banbury!” his wife cried out.

Looking at the clock I gave a small sigh before deciding that it was time to tell them what was going on.

“I think you might want to sit down, Mrs Summerly, as to what I have to tell you now will come as a bit of a shock.”

Both now stared at me suspiciously, and rightly so and eventually the stout woman sat down on the offered chair.

“You know something...” she probed, her beady eyes fixed on me, glaring.

“Yes,” I admitted, sure that the pair was well on their way to Scotland by now. “Yesterday your daughters have consulted a Dr Stephens.

“Never heard of the man,” Summerly interjected.

I refrained from pointing out that my wife was decidedly female.

“They requested an abortion, which was declined, of course.”

“Why would my Susan want to… - you know?” Mrs Summerly stuttered, looking confused.

“Because it is your daughter Mary who is with child.”

I let this information hang in the air, while both parents gaped at me. At last the ladies mother flared up: “That is absolutely impossible! She is to marry Lord Banbury, she cannot possibly be in the family way.”

“There is no doubt, however, that she is.”

It was the father who at last, with a toneless voice: “I hope she has not done herself any harm. We have to contact the police, Octavia.”

“But Lord Banbury...”

“Oh, hang Banbury! It is our daughter and she is in danger. I rather have her alive and disgraced than floating in the river. What do I care about Banbury?” he flared up, worry written all over his stern face. “Please, Mr Holmes, find our child. I beg you.”

“There is no need to because I know where she is, or rather where she is going to. - And also that she is not alone. She is merely following her own heart, nothing more.”

“Gretna Green,” Summerly whispered and I nodded. 

“She always had her own mind.” there a small, proud smile crossed his features. “But who is her companion?”

“The father of her unborn child: Mr Charles Atwell.”

“You meddling scoundrel!” Octavia Summerly screeched, jumping up from her chair which ended up on the floor with a clatter. 

Her husband only looked at me with a wry expression which told me that at least for him the happiness of his daughter was more important than any illustrious match that would make her unhappy, bowed and then pulled his lady from my room.

xxx

At last, I could get back to the actual problem. – Who had killed Sir Robert Atwell? Again I lit my pipe, leaned back against the upholstered headboard of the comfortable bed and thought over the case.

Mulling over the nine suspects I realised that I could neither prove their innocence nor their guilt, so another starting point had to be found. The motive did not help me either. The deeper I had dug, the more had come to light that could easily serve as one. And then there was the problem of how the poison had ended up in Sir Robert’s glass, though there was little doubt that it had. For the butler, it would have been easiest, but as a butler, he would have had many opportunities to kill his master – and less conspicuous ones as well. No, for the moment I ruled out the butler. 

Again I had the feeling I was missing something. But what? 

Suddenly I startled. Of course! How could I have overlooked such an obvious clue? - The ring! What was it Mrs Summerly had said about Sir James? ‘He had fidgeted with it all evening long – such an old fashioned, ugly, chunky thing’. 

But the ring he had been wearing this afternoon had been of a normal size, fairly modern, and though it held his seal it was worked rather plainly into the flat surface of the top. Still, Mrs Summerly might be a terrible gossip and overly ambitious, bordering ruthless, mother, but in this instance, I had complete faith in her observation and if that was the case, then the ring he had worn this afternoon was not the same ring he had worn two nights ago. 

Then there was also the fact that the dead man himself had remarked on its hideousness, which again did not apply to the plain ring that had been worn today. What if the ring in question had a hidden compartment? It would make it look chunky, no doubt and it would have been easy enough to apply the poison without anyone being the wiser. I had to find that ring!

I chanced at my watch only to find that it was already three in the morning. Not exactly a convenient time for searching anything I decided, changing into my pyjamas and at last crawled into bed for a few short hours of sleep.

xxx

Harriet:  
After Atwell’s brief visit I felt restless and nervous. I had intended to rest, but now was pacing my study impatiently, unable to concentrate on my research or on anything else, my mind straying time and time again. Subconsciously ma hand had slid down to my stomach time and time again, and while I was happy beyond anything, I was also terrified, doubting my own abilities as a mother. At one point I was tired of my own moods, which in one moment were elated and put a happy smile to my face only to plummet to the deepest depths of despair and doubt in the blink of an eye. As we would be expected at my brother’s in a few days anyway I decided to pack and go down to Lewes – or even Petersfield, depending on my mood. At the moment all that counted was to take action and escape my emotional dilemma. There was little use for Sherlock going back and forth only to pick me up anyway. When I went to bed everything was prepared for me to leave the next morning and as I could not find any sleep either I got up early and managed to take the eight-fifteen to Petersfield with the intention to carry on to Lewes later in the day. But the very least I needed was a smile from my husband.

I reached the Atwell’s estate shortly before midday, walking towards the house as I could see, as we approached, that the driveway was blocked by various carriages. When I rounded the last bend in the meandering path I was met with mayhem. 

“I swear I have not killed Sir Robert!” A man, already locked into a police cart pleaded, while a woman wailed loudly, crying for her James – presumably the prisoner who momentarily was driven away. Various bystanders were chattering excitedly, some protesting, others exclaiming disbelief.

Both my husband and brother stood calmly in the doorway watching the scene with interest and even pity, but by the expression on Sherlock’s face, I could clearly see that it was not an innocent man that was brought to prison. The wailing woman saw me, caught my eye and ran towards me, throwing her arms around my neck. She looked familiar, but I could not recall whether we had been introduced at one point, or not. With her tear-stained face, all red and blotchy it was hard to tell. Bewildered I put my own arms around her back, comforting her as well as I could.

“Please, you must tell them it is a mistake. Not my James.”

Why she thought I had any influence in what was going on was beyond me, but I presumed it was because I was neither police nor belonging to the household or the guests.

“Come now, Lady Isabel, come now, he has confessed to it. There is nothing to be done about that.” a tall man with an aristocratic face told her, pulling her gently away from me. 

“Have you got lost, miss?”

“No, I came here to… -” well yes, why did I actually come here? “To see my husband and see whether I could be of help or not.”

“Your husband? Oh well, the house is in an uproar anyway, so why don’t you come in?” His eyes suddenly fell on Sherlock, who still had not noticed me as he spoke to my brother, and suddenly the man broke out into a smile. “Mrs Sherlock Holmes, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Pleased to meet you. Sir Reginald Musgrave. I think we should get Lady Isabel inside and see if Professor Peverell cannot inject her with some laudanum to calm her down.”

“Personally I would say a cup of tea and a few drops of valerian essence should do for the moment.” I took the lady’s other arm and together we approached the front door.

“Harriet? Whatever are you doing here?” Sherlock had, at last, noticed me.

“I just happened to pass by,” I replied wryly. “I take it you have solved the case?”

“I found the murderer, but I am lacking a motive.”

“Is it important when he has confessed to the crime?”

“Not for court, but I personally prefer to have a complete picture, my dear,” he replied with a slight smile.

We were about to enter the house when a plump lady forced her way out of the building regardless of the crying woman we supported and who by now had gone limp in our arms, her knees buckling under the weight of the shame she carried on her shoulders, for being married to a murderer.

“I will not stay in this house a moment longer!” she exclaimed, looking over her shoulder at a man following in her wake. 

Staring at Sherlock coldly she fumed: “And you will hear from us. Don’t think you will get away with your meddling. No, we will take legal actions and then you will see where that lands you. Helping a girl elope!”

Sherlock Holmes did not answer but smiled disarmingly and I had to suppress a giggle. So this were the Summerlys. Nice people, indeed. - Though the father, even with his stern face, looked slightly more approachable than I had expected. Perhaps there would have been another way after all. But either way, I was sure to soon receive the telegram that would inform us of the young couple’s marriage. 

xxx

Two hours later the storm was over and the house was quiet again. Most guests had left by now and only the Peverells, Musgraves and Cedric and Imogene were left, shortly to leave as well.

“How on earth did you know it was de Clency?” Sir Reginald enquired curiously when tea had been served.

“Well, the poison had to be applied somehow and I wondered how it could have been done without anyone noticing - and then I remembered something Mrs Summerly had said and everything fell into place. Tough as said, I am still lacking a motive. Anyway, during breakfast, I went to Sir James’ bedchamber and with the help of a very complying butler soon had found what I have been looking for – a rather large signet ring. But not the one Sir James usually wore, but an old fashioned one. One that had been made to keep a tress of hair, or a short love note – or poison as in this case. There was still some residue in it, including specks of glass, which I now know have been in there accidentally as the vial containing the poison had broken when Sir James had filled the ring.” 

“But it indeed could account for the diversion of symptoms in Sir Robert’s case, going straight into his bloodstream.” the professor remarked thoughtfully. “I still cannot believe it.”

“No, me neither.” Lady Imogene said. “And I, too, am actually wondering why. After all, Sir Robert and Sir James have been friends for years, have they not?”

“I have found these...” Sherlock said thoughtfully, pulling out some papers from his inside pocket, handing one to Peverell, who read it, glanced up and with a sad expression on his face gave a slight nod.

“It is true, Mr Holmes, if that is what you wanted to ascertain.”

“Considering what you have told me I think I can safely assume that it was an act of kindness,” Sherlock Holmes smiled back at the man.

Taking his wife’s hand Peverell kissed it and she wiped away the single tear which had escaped him. This gesture was so touching I could, once more, feel my own eyes tearing up and before I could help it I was crying.

“Please excuse me...” I stammered, fleeing the room.

xxx

Sherlock:  
“Dear me, what is wrong with Hattie?” Imogene asked, her face showing great bewilderment, which at the moment I completely shared. 

“I have no idea,” I admitted, getting up to follow my wife.

I found Harriet sitting on a chair tucked away underneath the wide stairs, tears streaming down her face which she seemed unable to control.

“What is the matter, my dear? Are you all right?”

“Perfectly so.” she sobbed. “I am just being silly. Don’t worry, I’ll be all right in a moment.”

Of that I was not quite convinced, she looked distraught and tired. Pulling her up and into my arms, I comforted her as best as I could and surprisingly enough she quickly calmed down again.

“You, my dear, have worked too much again. I know you are as dedicated to your profession as I am to mine, but you have been looking pale and you have been feeling unwell and I fear I should have insisted that should take more rest.” I whispered, kissing the top of her head. “What do you say about a few days at the sea? Just the two of us? It is not as if Martha or Mrs Hudson will expect us to be back before Monday. Let’s sneak off.”

“But my brother’s party...” she snivelled, searching for her handkerchief. I handed her mine.

“Your brother’s party is postponed till the summer. Your sister in law did not think it appropriate in the face of the recent events to celebrate.”

“She has got a point there,” Harriet muttered, blowing her nose and wiping her eyes.

“Yes. So? Seaside, just us?” I asked, pulling her closer again. 

“It is January, Sherlock.” 

“And?”

“It will be freezing cold. Have you ever been at the seaside at this time of year? The wind is devilish!”

“We can stay indoors all day long if you wish. We have each other – and a crackling fire. Perhaps we can get a book or two.”

She began laughing at my persistence, caressing my cheek gently. Then her expression turned unreadable.

“Sherlock, there is just one thing you should know.”

I stared at her with some alarm.

“It will not just be the two of us going to the seaside.” 

Now she had me utterly confused. Who could she be talking off? I certainly was not prepared to take another person, be it my mother in law or Tom or whoever, I told her so most decidedly. Then I saw her smile. I had often seen her smile, but never like that. It was the most wonderful expression I had ever seen on her lovely face and my heart skipped a beat. Carefully Harriet took my hand and gently placed it on her abdomen.

“I fear this one person we will have to take with us, whether you like it or not, Sherlock.”

xxx

I think upon our return to the sitting room I must have smiled like a fool, but the happiness at my wife’s news was beyond anything I had ever felt, and even had I wanted to, I knew I would not have been able to suppress it. 

We came back to a room of indignant looking people reading through the notes I had left on the table. No-one noticed our smiling faces and the sparkle in our eyes. Not that I would have cared anyway. If it had been for me I would have shouted it from the rooftops. But Harriet had reminded me that it was still very early on, a time when most women would not even know they were expecting and that the first months were the riskiest ones. The sound of that had dampened my mood but very slightly. There was no use in worrying too much after all. 

“Had someone ever told me of this side of Sir Robert, I would not have believed it,” Musgrave exclaimed, breaking my most pleasant thoughts. “Personally I would say we take the lot of them and burn them. Keeping them for any kind of reason will do no-one any good.”

This could hardly be denied.

“You know, there is an odd surplus of first names starting with an ‘S’. One would have thought ‘J’ was the most common first initial, along with C, G and H.” Harriet suddenly remarked and thinking about it, she was right. More than half of the initials were ‘S – something’.

She reached for one of the sheets and glanced at it thoughtfully.

“Could it not be that this SJ does not refer to an S. So-and-so, but to Sir J…? If that is the case, then this could be your missing motive, Sherlock.”

Her brother took the paper from her, then nodded. 

“You seem to be onto something there, Hattie.”

“But Sir James is a married man and he has four children.” Musgrave threw in.

“Which does not necessarily mean he cannot also have liked the company of men,” I answered. “But for now we can only assume it is him, perhaps at the trial, he will be more talkative.”

Reaching for the papers I threw them into the fire and all of us watched them burn, no-one saying a single word till the paper had turned to a pile of flimsy ashes. 

A knock on the door broke our reverie and the butler entered with a message for me. I caught Harriet’s eye and got up, hoping it would not be another case waiting. I had been serious when I had suggested a short stay at the seaside, and if we were snowed in all the better. It was not a new case, however. This news were decidedly more cheerful. - Well not as cheerful as the ones I had received not an hour earlier, but still a happy ending to this horrible affair.

“I think it is time to leave. It is getting late and dark already.” I said, looking at the expectant faces in the salon, presumably wondering what the telegram had contained. I did not have them wonder any longer, smiling I told them: “However, there is a glimmer of hope for this family and it seems all this now ends in a fairly happy ending. Charles Atwell has gotten married and is on his way back here with his new wife. I think the news they have to share will comfort Lady Mary enough to recover from the severe shock she has had.”

“Atwell? But… - Holmes, you are impossible!” Cedric cried out, shaking his head. “So that is why he disappeared, allegedly keeping to his room. You know, the two of you are impossible! What else are you hiding?”

Harriet and I only grinned at one another before leaving, hand in hand. The sea was waiting, mid-winter or not.


	49. A Needle in the Haystack - Part 1

A needle in a haystack - Part 1

Harriet:  
We spend the night at an inn at Petersfield as it was getting too late to gown to the coast and get lodgings there and only the next morning we made our way to Bognor Regis, renting a small cottage a few miles out of town for the remainder of the week. It overlooked the Channel, standing somewhat precariously close to the small cliff it was built on, the grey and stormy sea thundering as if directly underneath us. But what a stunning sight! Whilst on one hand quite foreboding, on the other it was oddly calming to listen to the waves crashing against the limestone rocks and the air was filled with the salty spray of the diffused water.

When we alighted from the dogcart we had hired to get there the cottage looked comfortable enough. In the snowy landscape, the tiny house looked quite welcoming, had it not been for the lack of smoke from the chimney which clearly showed us, that no fire was burning inside to welcome us. The path to its front door was not cleared and we waded through almost knee deep and pristine snow to get into the house, but once we opened the door we found that it was nicely furnished and appeared very cosy, despite the freezing cold inside. - Which perhaps was not much of a surprise as it had stood empty since the early autumn when the last tourists had left the area. The windows were covered with frost patterns, our breaths fogged up and it was to our great relief that we found the coal supply to be aplenty.

"If you take care of the fire in the sitting room, I'll take care of the stove and a pot full of steaming hot tea." I offered, rubbing my cold hands together in an attempt to get them warm enough to perform this simple task.

"That my dear sounds like a very good plan. I'll bring in our suitcases and the food and after that, we could curl up on the sofa and read a bit." Sherlock suggested, his expression akin to that of a child in a candy shop as he searched around for a coal scuttle and soon found it behind the door of the lumber room.

I set to work and half an hour later the kettle was whistling and I poured the tea while Sherlock, at last, brought in our groceries, his cheeks sporting some colour, hair dishevelled and a smile on his thin lips.

"Have I told you how lovely you look, my dear?" he enquired. "You look quite at home."  
I laughed, thanked him for the compliment and paid him one in return.

It was slowly but surely getting warm inside and I, at last, was able to take off my coat and enjoy the peace and quiet of the place. This was certainly preferable to a formal function, no matter how much I loved my brother and sister and how much I would have liked to see my mother again. Then again, my mother had a knack of sensing whenever a woman was in the family way and as of yet, I was not prepared to share this secret with the rest of my family. No, they would have to wait another couple of months till I would not be able to hide my condition any longer.

As if he had read my thought my husband wrapped his arms around me from behind, pulling me against him and held me close for a moment of perfect contentment, till we did as he had suggested and made ourselves comfortable on the well-worn sofa, placed underneath one of the living room windows to afford a wonderful view across the sea. Far in the distance, a boat made its way westward.

We read on for about an hour or two cuddled together, me leaning against him while one of his arms was wrapped around me. But eventually my mind began to stray and what had been distracting me since two nights ago broke through the surface and I addressed the issue of me possibly leaving St. Anne's. Sherlock Holmes listened in silence, his book still in hand and his face thoughtful.

When I had finished he remarked: "Will you be happy just staying at home, Harriet? I know you are as passionate about your profession as I am about mine. I have to admit however that I would prefer for you not to work at the hospital, for the sake of our baby, but at the same time I would not want to see you unhappy."

At this earnest and thoughtful speech tears welled up once again and I answered him: "I honestly don't know. I am so confused at the moment it is driving me insane. This has been on my mind ever since I was certain I was pregnant. I know I cannot have it all. I know it would be better if I gave up my profession as there is always the danger of an infection that might do harm, and yet I am unable to make a decision. My heart refuses to listen to my brain and I feel uncomfortable with either option."

My husband, at last, put his book aside and pulled me ever so much closer to him till my head rested on his shoulder, his hand stroking my hair soothingly.

"Perhaps we will find a solution where you don't have to choose. At least not between work and our child. St. Anne's is not the only alternative for you after all."

By the way, he said those words I glanced up at him and saw a small smile replace his thoughtful expression.

"And those alternatives are? Sherlock, I am a woman, I did not have many options in the first place, and not only that I am married and I am with child. Do you really think I have another option?" I was quite curious as to what he had on his mind as I saw no alternative for me than to stay at home and resign myself to motherhood.

I had known that eventually, this would be unavoidable. Most men, especially in our class of society, did not even let their wives follow a profession if they had any that was. It was one thing I had appreciated about Sherlock Holmes, that he did not mind me working as a doctor at all, and even supported me in my chosen profession. But he had also made it clear from the start that he wanted a family rather sooner than later, which was just as well as neither of us was exactly young anymore. And while I had wanted one, too, I had pushed any thought about the consequences of what inevitably would follow far to the back of my mind, not expecting to have to deal with the matter quite so soon. After all, we were only married for little more than two months. So while I was decidedly happy about my condition, elated even, at the same time I conscious that my life would have to alter quite drastically.

"Well, I have to admit my suggestion might sound a bit selfish," Sherlock began, "but perhaps you could work as an assistant for Doctor Bell. - Do some research, compare cases and the like. I doubt you will get paid though, but it is not as if we are dependent on your salary. You could contribute a great deal, helping the police and me, all the while satisfying your own curiosity and do something very useful." 

At first, I gaped at him, but then had to smile. That I presumably would not earn anything or only very little in such a position would not make much of a difference as my main income was from what my father had left and invested for me, so much was true. As it was all the money I had received from my position had been re-invested into the hospital anyway. But if it was possible to work with the coroner I would have a purpose other than waiting for our child to be born.

"Do you really think he would allow me to assist him?" I asked him eagerly, fully aware that I sounded like a child who had just been promised a treat.

Sherlock chuckled at my expression then nodded.

"Well yes, why not? I will speak to him as soon as we are back in London. If you want me to, that is. But with your curious disposition, I think this might suit you very well. I doubt Doctor Bell will object to such a scheme, not since you have proven yourself worthy at any rate."

My mind wandered back to the murder of Mr. Thompson and the first time I had met the slightly abrasive and decidedly shrewd man. But the more I thought about the idea, the more it grew on me. Though the thought of leaving the small charity hospital I had run for the better part of three years and with it all the people who had come to trust me, still made my heart heavy. There I had toiled in the knowledge to be exactly where I was needed the most, while at the same time I had the best possible conditions for more research. I was, after all, not so altruistic as to not wanting anything out of it as well. In this instance, it had been knowledge that had been my reward. I also refused to get my hopes up in case Sherlock's idea would come to nothing in the end. After all who knew how the good old doctor would react to such a request?

I voiced my worries and was rewarded with a gentle kiss, one of my husband's irresistible grins and his assurance that if I could not help Doctor Bell I could always help him.

"Don't I do that anyway?" I asked, laughing.

"Hm, yes, admittedly." he mused.

"And would not hunting criminals be even more dangerous than working at a hospital?" I dug deeper.

"Yes, but while I hunt them down in the streets, you could safely sit at home and..."

"And worry about your safety," I replied wryly.

"Well, perhaps that as well," Sherlock replied smirking. "Oh dear, we are a pair indeed! I wonder if other couples have similar problems?"

"I doubt it. Mainly for the reason that their wives don't insist on working."

"Technically neither do you, you just happen to do it anyway - but I would not want it any other way. If I had wanted an ordinary wife I could have married a long time ago, but alas, I did not. What I wanted was a Harriet Stephrey. You know, you are right, sometimes my profession is a dangerous one, and exactly that is the reason why I would not have married a lesser woman than you. If ever something should happen to me, you and our children would not suffer from destitution at least and believe me, that is some comfort to me."

Once more his words made me tear up. As it was I was unable to deal even with the thought of something happening to the man I loved so dearly at the best of times.

"Hush, dear! All will be well. I intend to grow old with you and I will be very careful in all my undertakings. That I promise."

xxx

The two days passed uneventfully. We did nothing but reading, sometimes play some music, as conveniently the cottage was equipped with a slightly off-tune piano, and go for short walks, in the cold winter air. I was feeling a lot better for it, though I still was tremendously tired, easily irritated and often sick, which led so far, that my husband refrained from drinking coffee in the morning as that usually upset me.

It was on our last night that we lay in bed, as always snuggled together closely, speaking about our plans for the following week, which comprised of me resigning, visiting Mary and not much more – unless Doctor Bell agreed to our scheme. Sherlock had no case at hand but had found a couple of newspaper articles which had caught his attention and roused his suspicions. He was a vigilant man, following every potential crime closely lest he should be engaged in the case.

"Harriet, there is one thing I actually would like to ask you," Sherlock said after a few minutes of content silence after which all had been settled.

"Yes?" I mumbled drowsily, close to falling asleep.

Somewhat hesitantly he asked: "Would you mind me being there when our baby is born?"

Glancing up I met his eyes which were glistening in the semi-darkness as the moon shone through our window, and saw that he was serious in his request.

"Are you sure you would want that?" I enquired, knowing full well that most men preferred to stay as far away from their wives as they possibly could while they were in labour.

"I would not ask if I were not." was his earnest reply as his hand slipped down to rest on my stomach as if he could not wait to feel our child's first movement.

"Then how can I refuse? But, Sherlock, you must promise me to leave the instant you start to find it unbearable."

"Is it so bad?"

His eyebrows had shot up to almost his hairline in an expression of heightened concern.

"It can at times. It can drag on for hours, sometimes even days, is painful and exhausting and emotionally challenging, to say the least." I answered matter of factly, ignoring my own fears this excited.

"Then how can I not be there? How could I let you go through this all on your own?"

"Most men do, nowadays at least."

"I am not most men!" my husband exclaimed somewhat indignantly.

"No, and I am glad you are not." I smiled at him affectionately. "And thus I would love to have you by my side."

Snuggling up to Sherlock again I began to feel sleepy, now that these issues had been addressed, and soon after fell asleep, my mind so much lighter than it had been before. I really had married the best of men.


	50. A Needle in the Haystack - Part 2

A needle in a haystack - Part 2

Harriet:  
We arrived back at Baker Street by midday on Tuesday and were already expected by an agitated looking inspector I had not yet met.

“Thank goodness you are here at last. I have been waiting for hours it seems.”

“You have only been here for twenty minutes, sir,” Tom piped up from behind us, making me chuckle. 

The man frowned at the boy then looked at me.

“I see you have a client...” he trailed off, looking none too pleased.

‘There we go again’, I thought, rolling my eyes inwardly. It kind of became a bit tedious that we had to explain over and over again, that we were husband and wife. Though admittedly perhaps we had married a bit hasty, or rather very much so, though it felt as if I had known my husband a lifetime already by then. But in general people would consider a wedding after an engagement of one month quite speedy, so what would they say to a half hour one? And after an acquaintance of little more than a day? Well, technically we had met before, but that was at a time when I had still been lying in my cradle and my husband was about our page boy’s age, I somehow doubted that this counted as being long-time acquaintances. 

“Yes, I see that, too, Inspector Gregson. So how can I help you?” Sherlock smiled, reaching out his hand. 

The man looked puzzled before it dawned on him that Sherlock had meant him being his client, not me. Bewildered he was about to reply but was cut short by me and my offer to go and get some tea.

xxx

Sherlock:  
“She is not your new maid, is she?” Gregson asked, still looking bewildered “If so I can tell you now she’ll have a bunch of admirers invading this place.” 

“No, of course, she is not my maid,” I replied, rather indignantly, while at the same time I was quite amused. “Harriet is my wife. So what is it that brings you here, Inspector? I see you have changed to the City Police and are no longer with the Metropolitan Force. I also see that you have spent a sleepless night or two.”

“No, I have hardly slept these last couple of nights and yes, I have transferred. How…? Oh, never mind.” Gregson replied, running his hand through his already dishevelled hair. “I have spent the whole of yesterday and last night searching for a missing carriage. But I think I should start at the beginning. Three nights ago a substantial amount of gold was transferred from the Bank of England to one of the smaller bank houses in the city. Namely to Barnicott and Harris down Cannon Street, who, as you might know, deal mainly in South African stock. Now there is not half a mile in between these two bank houses and the night from Saturday to Sunday was chosen purposely as then the roads can be easily guarded as hardly anyone is around. We also took great care to use the smaller passages that are basically vacant at that time of night, other than the thoroughfares – it was well past eleven. However, as it was, there was a brawl amongst some hooligans in St. Swithin’s Lane, one of the narrowest streets we passed, and the transport had to stop but could not turn at this point. It was as if the men had come from nowhere. Some of our men tried to break the fight apart, but as they did so, the driver of the carriage was forced from the box and suddenly the ruffians parted and ran away and the carriage dashed off, while the driver was lying unconsciously on the ground having cracked his head in the process of the fall. He is now in hospital and it is not quite certain if he will survive. The carriage was seen as it ran down Cannon Street in an eastward direction and then turned into Gracechurch Street where it got lost after passing Leadenhall Market. There are a couple of narrow lanes there as well as various passages, and we have made enquiries if someone has seen the carriage, of course, but nothing came from it. So it can be literally everywhere in London by now.”

“I assume that no ordinary carriage was used to transport such a valuable load,” I remarked, memorising as much of the information given to me as was possible. 

“No, we used one of the Police’s own Black Maria’s. We had several men on guard, securing it and still. Mr Holmes, this is a catastrophe. Have you any idea what kind of scandal this might cause?”

“I have an inkling,” I answered wryly, reaching for my cigarette case. “How much value in gold are we talking? And who had it transferred to be invested?”

“The amount is close to eighty thousand Pounds Sterling and as for whose gold it was, I cannot say. The directors informed us about the transport and requested our assistance, but we had little more to do with the whole matter than bringing a secure carriage and about a dozen people to guard it. All that was implied was, that the client they were acting for is a most illustrious one.”

“Who planned the route? You said you took great care to stick to the narrower side lanes. Why?” I could not help thinking that if I had planned such a transfer, that I would have stuck to the widest roads possible instead of using the back alleys. 

“As far as I know both directors – Sir Frederic Belmont, who currently heads the Bank of England and Mr Barnicott as senior partner from Barnicott and Harris. I can only presume that they chose this route to be as inconspicuous as possible and not draw attention.”

At this my brows knitted and I stared thoughtfully into the fire as I digested all this information. If they did not want to draw attention, then the obvious course to take would have been to transfer the money in broad daylight with the streets busy and making use of the main roads.

“Well, one thing is clear,” I, at last, said, when Harriet returned with a tray, pouring each of us a cup of tea. “This was a trap and a well thought out one. The question now is, who has set it up.”

“The same thought occurred to me,” the inspector admitted, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, yawning. “Dear me, I could actually do with a cup of strong coffee. But tea is also most welcome. Thank you Mrs Holmes.”

At the word coffee, my wife visibly paled and quickly left the room. I glanced at the closed door and shook my head in bemusement. That even the thought of coffee could turn her stomach was unexpected. But as it was, five minutes later Tom appeared with a cup of strong coffee and sat it down in front of the crestfallen and weary police official, while I was once more deep in thought. There were numerous places where the carriage could be hidden and looking for it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack for sure. However, it was not hopeless. 

“I think it might be best if I had a look around the crime scene. I know the area well, and perhaps we might stumble over the one or other clue that has as yet escaped you.”

Gregson huffed, though did not say anything.

xxx

Taking a carriage we arrived in St. Swithin’s Lane about forty minutes later. But any trace that might have been left behind, seemed to have been obliterated either by the criminals themselves, by the police or the many people passing by. At this time of day, the city was buzzing and this applied not only to the main roads but also to the many side lanes which often were used as convenient shortcuts to get from one place to another. 

“Here it was that the carriage stopped,” Gregson told me and pointed at a spot about a hundred yards from where St. Swithin’s turned into Cannon Street.

“You said the brawlers appeared suddenly. Could you discern from what direction they came?”

“No. It was as if the appeared out of nothing. They were certainly not there when we turned into the lane.”

St. Swithin’s Lane was a long narrow alley with only one equally narrow street leading off it at the far end from where we stood. Again it struck me as odd that someone would have chosen such a route. It did not make sense. There was no way to quickly turn the carriage or even turn into another lane should something happen. The buildings to both sides were mainly offices with only a few flats that went out to the back anyway. There were a few yards one could access from there, but aside from that, this was probably the worst possible path they could have chosen to transport gold – and the recent events had proven that that was not only hypothetically so, but decidedly. 

I worked my way down St. Swithin’s Lane, starting at the Cannon Street end. Had I first thought all traces had been obliterated I still found one particular spot, close to where, according to Inspector Gregson, the brawl had taken place, where, behind some empty crates and refuse barrels I found a substantial amount of cigarette butts, counting twenty seven altogether, lying there in the snow which had been reduced to a brown icy crust as many feet had trampled it down. Changing my position I could not help thinking that this was the perfect hiding spot to lay an ambush, especially in the dark. At least now we knew where the ruffians had come from. And that the attack had been planned and not happened out of chance. 

The question now was, who had planned it? There were several options, the most obvious being that it had been either of the bank directors to get at the insurance money, while still actually being in possession of the gold, the owner of the gold, for the very same reason, or a group of random criminals who had gotten wind of the transfer and of the route somehow and who then had decided to steal the gold. 

To be honest, the last option, while obviously foremost in the mind of the police, to me seemed the least likely one. There were too many random factors that they obviously had been privy to and unless there was a traitor amongst the police or bank clerks, there was no way a group of thieves could get at that kind of information – not since Moriarty anyway. Inspector Gregson himself had only been informed about the transport a day before it had taken place, yet the whole scenario smacked of a well-organised crime and not something that had been planned speedily and on short notice. It certainly was supposed to look like a plain robbery, but even the little evidence I had, spoke of something different altogether. 

I walked further down the alley counting the street lamps, which were but few and far between – another very good reason to have chosen another route, this path was fairly dim even now in the late midwinter afternoon. Returning to where I had started off I went towards Cannon Street, glancing down the busy road. 

“The carriage went off in this direction,” Gregson informed me, rather unnecessarily as he had told me so already. 

Together we carried on eastward till we reached Gracechurch Street.

“You said the carriage was last seen around here. Who saw it and where exactly?” I enquired as we had reached the equally busy road.

“It was seen by a policeman on his beat. Where exactly I cannot say.” Gregson admitted, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Could you give me the man’s address?”

“You think it is important?”

Somewhat incredulously I stared at the official detective. If he had set out to search the area without narrowing it down he truly deserved to be this tired.

“It is of the utmost importance as consequently, it would mean we can leave out all of Gracechurch Street from the Cannon Street to that exact spot.”

“Yes, of course.” Tobias Gregson admitted. 

With a look into his notebook he gave me the name of the constable and I, in turn, took a Hansom to go and see the man.

xxx

Constable Smith was a young man who had obviously just gotten up as he was busy shaving when I was led into his room by his landlady. If he was surprised to see me, he did not show it, but at any rate, the man seemed of a particularly stoic kind, though not unintelligent. The kind of man one usually just meets in the country.

“It was at the turn into Leadenhall Market, as that was where I was just about to go down,” he answered, offering me a cigarette.

“And you are sure it was that particular police cart?” I dug deeper, wanting to establish how much he had really seen.

“Yes, Sir. At first, it did not even catch my attention, but as it drove closer I saw that it was a Black Maria and that it was not driven by a policeman. I mean, even though there are drivers that are not actual constables, they still wear a uniform. This driver did not. He wore plain clothes and a cloth cap as did the fellow next to him.”

“There were two of them?”

“Yes.”

“And the carriage drove further down Gracechurch Street? Or did it turn at some point?” I dug deeper, quite impressed by his observations.

“It went towards Bishopsgate, but as there is a slight bend in the road so I could not see whether it turned at some point,” he answered apologetically.

“Thank you, you have been of great help.”

Here his broad face lit up and he grinned sheepishly. 

“Well, I have done nothing more than my job, Mr Holmes,” he answered bashfully, escorting me to the door himself.


	51. A Needle in the Haystack - Part 3

A needle in a haystack - Part 3

Harriet:  
After Sherlock and the inspector had left I had decided to take some action myself and thus went down to Lisson Grove. With a heavy heart, I entered St Anne’s to a full waiting room and many familiar faces. 

“Ah Doctor, I did not expect you to come in today.” the nurse behind the desk greeted me with a surprised expression on her tired face. 

“It is but a short visit, Miss Harris. Who is on duty today?” I enquired.

“Doctor Flannegan, Madam. Shall I call him? He is currently making his currently making his round.”

“No, thank you. I just want to sort some things out in my office and then will be off again.” I replied, feeling tremendously sad and once more was close to crying. Dear me, I really needed to start to control this. It was getting out of hand and started to be quite embarrassing. 

Sitting down at my desk I quickly went through my letters, all of which were rather insignificant and could be dealt with easily. Then I pulled out my accounts book, closed it, packed it into my carpet bag and left to go see my superior at the more prestigious St. Mary’s Hospital. 

“Doctor Stephens, what a surprise to see you. Is something amiss?” I was promptly asked by Doctor Carter, the director of both St. Mary’s and St. Anne’s, as soon as I had entered his office. “You look pale. Are you ill?”

He was an elderly man with side whiskers and a pair of gleaming gold-rimmed glasses behind which two brilliant blue eyes kindly glanced at me. 

Taking a deep breath I took out the accounts book and handed it to him the book.

“You are early with your accounts. They are only due by the end of January,” he remarked, taking the volume nonetheless. 

“Yes, Sir, I know. But as of today, I will resign from my position.” 

Carter stared at me aghast, shaking his head slightly as if he wanted to ascertain whether he had heard me right or not.

“You might not have heard yet, but I have gotten married and...” I carried on.

“Your husband does not like you working? Is it not always the same old thing?!” he interrupted, sounding almost angry and slightly disappointed. 

“No, Doctor, he does not oppose to me working at all. Quite the contrary. He is very supportive. It is my own decision to leave.”

“Has there been an issue? Did you have problems with anyone at the hospital?” 

“None at all, Sir. It is with a heavy heart that I leave, but...”

“Then I don’t quite understand why you do so. If your husband is supportive and you like working at St Anne’s why would you…” suddenly he stared at me before his face broke into a wide smile. “Oh! Of course. You have turned into one of your own patients, so to say. Well, yes, under these circumstances I understand your decision and accept your notice.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Can we still apply to you, Doctor – well Stephens is obviously not your name any more?”

“No, I mean yes, Stephens is not my name any more – well, technically it never was, as you must be aware that it was only a pseudonym in the first place. Now it’s Doctor Holmes, Sir. And yes, you may still ask for my expertise.” I smiled back. 

When I had started to work at St Anne’s I had asked to work under my pseudonym to avoid confusion and also to keep my family name out of it for my brother’s sake, but that had been shortly before Doctor Carter had taken over his position. 

He chuckled again: “Yes, you don’t look much like a Reymond. Well, Doctor Holmes, then I wish you all the happiness in the world. And even though I am fully aware that a doctor never likes to take advice, least of all from a colleague, in this instance, I would say you should find yourself something to occupy your brain with. There are only ever so many baby clothes a child needs, but you yourself wrote in your book that a well-rested and happy woman will have less trouble during her pregnancy. With you, I cannot imagine that mental dormancy will do you any good.”

He had gotten up to shake my hand and smiling I answered: “Yes, my husband thought so, too, and we have agreed that we should find something to avoid such a thing as ‘mental dormancy’, while at the same time avoiding any danger of infecting myself or the child with disease.”

With that I left for home, tears streaming down my face at thinking that this part of my life was now irretrievably lost to me. But as I climbed into Hansom the thought that it was replaced by something even more wonderful made me smile again and by the time I arrived at Baker Street I was all content.

xxx

Sherlock:   
Even though it was getting increasingly dark I returned to Gracechurch Street and positioned myself at the very spot Constable Smith had described. Indeed, even if I crossed the road, which had quieted down since the early afternoon when I had been here with Gregson, I could not see any further than the rest of Gracechurch Street and a few yards up Bishopsgate but not beyond. The curve was barely noticeable unless, like me in this instant, wanted to look further – and towards Threadneedle Street. Did it have any significance that the carriage had taken a route that would lead it basically back towards the Bank of England? It would have been a stroke of genius, to be sure, to have a good dozen policemen struggle on one end, while behind their backs the very gold they were supposed to watch passed them unnoticed. 

On foot I made my way towards the Bank of England, which of course by the time I arrived there was closed, to follow the path the transport had taken. Walking down Mansion House Place I turned into St. Swithin’s Lane and sure enough, the narrow passage was as dark and deserted as I had expected. And one more thing caught my attention. The place where the crates and rubbish barrels stood was drenched so deep in shadow that aside from some shapeless form one could impossibly make out anything distinct. 

Once more I walked the length of the street to get back to Cannon Street and take a Hansom from there to return home. For today I had done enough walking and admittedly I was starting to feel the cold. Mulling things over sitting in my armchair with a pipe or two would be more helpful than pacing the streets of the Metropolis at any rate.

xxx

When I did return home it was past nine and Harriet was waiting for me already, her face all eager curiosity. 

“I presume you are working on a new case then?” she asked, taking my hat and coat from me.

“I am,” I replied smiling, pecking her on the cheek. “A curious little problem, but nothing out of the ordinary I fear.”

“If anyone else would say so I would believe it, but with you ‘not out of the ordinary’ is usually still quite extraordinary in comparison to what normal people would consider such,” she teased.

“So, I am not normal then?” I tried to bait her, successfully.

Laughing she replied: “No, not normal at all. If you were normal I would not have married you, my dear.”

“Hm, then I am glad I am not ‘normal’. For a moment I was wondering whether it was a good or bad thing.”

“Oh very decidedly a good thing, Sherlock. I’ll just go and get your dinner. I have to admit that I have eaten already.” 

“Which is just as well as it is almost half past nine. How are you at any rate? I hope you got some rest.” 

Sitting down at our dining table Harriet went down to the kitchen where Mrs Hudson usually kept my meal warm when I had been out and about. A couple of minutes she returned with a generous piece of roast pork, some potatoes and beans as well as an enormous slice of apple pie.

“My dear, I fear I will need help.” I sighed theatrically at seeing the immense amount of food. Mrs Hudson still would not give up on trying to make me eat more it seemed.

“What do you need help with?” Hattie looked puzzled. “What is the case about anyway?”

“I don’t necessarily need help with the case, but I would, of course, appreciate it, if you would listen to the details. No, in this instance I meant help with the food. Please tell me, how many people did our dear landlady expect to feed with this portion?”

“Hm, I would estimate around six?” my wife grinned. 

“That was also my guess. Wait till she finds out you are expecting, I can almost see you being force-fed,” I chuckled, pushing the pie in her direction.

xxx

Harriet:  
When we had finished eating we changed into our night clothes and snuggled up in front of the fireplace, each in one of the well used and extremely comfortable armchairs while our feet shared the upholstered stool, at least until my husband decided to tickle my feet with his toes and I curled up in my seat instead.

“Spoilsport!” he teased and I was greatly tempted to throw a cushion at him. 

“So, what is your new case about? I was tempted to eavesdrop, but actually fell asleep after telling Tom to bring up a cup of coffee for the inspector.”

Sherlock, pipe between his lips, which made him mumble slightly, described the situation while I listened in silence.

“So tomorrow morning I will mobilise my Baker Street irregulars and have them have a look around the area, while I will speak to the directors and, if possible, the client whose gold got lost.”

“Who has such an amount of gold lying about?” I asked bewildered, trying to figure out how many pounds of the metal would equal the sum of eighty thousand Pounds Sterling. 

“I have been wondering as well. But considering that the Bank of England mainly deals with high profile clients, and Gregson also said it was indicated to him that it was a most illustrious person, though he did not know who, I dare say it might be either an industrialist or one of the peers of this country. What I would like to know is, why it was necessary to actually transfer the gold. It is fairly unusual even with smaller sums, and it would have been a lot less risky if they had issued a promissory note instead. Then there is this thing why it was done at such a late hour, in the middle of the night, on a weekend and most and for all, why they used these dingy alleyways instead of the main roads that are easy to oversee and where in case of an incident, the police could have reacted accordingly.”

“So I presume you think that this robbery was planned right from the start?”

“Yes.” he simply answered, re-lighting his pipe. “I do get the idea that the reason why the gold was transported in the first place was to steal it. But this, at present, is nothing more than a hypothesis which I cannot prove. That is what I am going to try tomorrow. So what have you been up to, my love?”

“I quit my position at St Anne’s,” I replied offhandedly, though I still felt the loss greatly.

Sherlock looked surprised but then smiled.

“Then I will, among other things, go and see Dr Bell tomorrow. And for now, I think you should go to bed.”

“Will you not come, too?” 

“Yes, in a moment. I just want to mull things over a while longer and then I will come to bed...” he trailed off and I could see his mind had already strayed back to the problem, as he stared into the fire without taking anything in. 

Smiling I kissed his temple and crawled into bed, tired and oddly at peace with myself despite the slight melancholy due to my quitting. 

Xxx

When Sherlock joined me I do not know as I was fast asleep by that time, but when I woke up at first light I could feel his arm around me and turning around I could not resist kissing him, which produced a small smile on his lips.

“I thought you were still asleep,” I yawned.

“No, I was enjoying the moment,” he smirked widely now, kissing me back. “But I fear I will have to get started. There is a mountain of work ahead of me.”

“Do you by any chance need help?” 

“I can always do with a companion, you know that,” was his reply which quite surprised me. 

I had almost expected him to tell me to rest some more. 

“And as I intend to drop by Dr Bell anyway, perhaps you can start there right away. And if not you are welcome to come with me.” he carried on, grinning: “Even though I am quite convinced that most banks commit greater crimes than most criminals they are usually safe places for people to go. Just not for their money.”

Laughing I slipped out of bed to get myself ready.


	52. A Needle in the Haystack - Part 4

A needle in a haystack - Part 4

Harriet:   
Sherlock sent out Tom to get him a certain MacRae and his men and as I had never heard of the man and never as yet had met his ‘Baker Street Irregulars’ I was quite surprised when half an hour later a group of eight street urchins piled into our sitting room, assembling themselves into a line, and, like soldiers, saluted to us. 

“We are awaiting your orders, Sir,” the tallest of them greeted with a slight Scottish accent which made me assume he was said MacRae. “We are working for our usual rate.”

“Very well,” Sherlock replied smiling, looking from one grubby face to the other, “I have a job for you. On the night from Saturday to Sunday, a police cart was stolen and last seen when it dashed up Bishopsgate. It is a secure police cart with the emblem of the City Police, meaning it is gold instead of silver in colour – a Black Maria, with the number 8705. Better write it down so you won’t forget. What I would like you to do is, to check every nook and cranny up this road and down this one for it.” 

There he had pulled out a map of London and placed it on the table, indicating the area he wanted to be searched. Eight eager faces followed his trailing finger, some boys nodding and a few chewing on their bottom lip to memorise everything. As I watched them I became aware that some did not even owned a scarf and one boy’s trousers were so threadbare that I had the feeling one could see through them. Catching my husband’s eye I saw he had noticed, too.

“Very well, Sir,” MacRae answered at last. “If we don’t find it, it’s not there!”

“Of that I am very sure. Here is a Shilling for you each. I expect a report by this evening, let us say six o’clock? And I think you all should come.”

“Yes, Sir!” 

And before another word could be uttered they ran from the room and moments later they were heard in the streets.

“I’ll quickly speak to Mrs Hudson to have a bit of broth ready for them tonight. What is it, Tom?” my husband asked, while I was already wondering where to quickly get a couple of thick scarves and thick woollen socks from.

“Sir, where do they sleep at night? It is terribly cold and wet out there.”

“Yes, it is, but you need not worry. On my suggestion, they share a room. They put together the money they earn and if that is not enough I usually help them out.” my husband assured him, ruffling his hair affectionately.

xxx

Sherlock:  
We set off towards the City though taking a bee-line towards Scotland Yard first to see whether Doctor Bell would be willing to have Harriet assist him. We found the Doctor at his desk, drinking a cup of tea. When we entered his small office right next to the dissecting room he glanced up with some surprise.

“What brings you here, Mr Holmes? Doctor Holmes?” he greeted.

“We have a request,” I answered, suddenly not so sure any more he would agree to such a scheme. 

After all it was a somewhat unusual situation and while he had acknowledged Harriet to be a good doctor, she still was a woman and unfortunately right in assuming that as such she would never be fully accepted into the illustrious circle of her male colleagues. To many, she was nothing more than an oddity and with her now being a wife and soon a mother they might just as well be of the opinion that she should stay at home and be nothing besides.

“Well?” he asked, shuffling his papers. “I haven’t got all day. The superintendent has got it into his head that the Saunderson case needs to be re-opened and I have to look through some of the old notes now to see if there had been a mistake somewhere. And that beauty there is also waiting for me.” 

There he pointed at the shrouded figure on the slab. It seemed we were in luck after all. 

“I would like to assist you for a while to learn more about this field of the medical profession,” Harriet answered before I could say anything.

First Bell looked surprised, then a cheeky grin spread over his face.

“Very well, you can start right now if you’ve got the time. Here, find the needle in the haystack. If there is any, that is.”

Shoving the papers at her he got up and walked over to the sink to wash his hands. 

“Then I can finally start with the autopsy. There is another body coming in soon, I was told and I better get a move on. I would have already, were it not for Superintendent Brown.” he carried on, while my wife and I shared an amused glance. 

“James, get everything ready!” Bell shouted towards his assistant, while my wife kissed me and send me on my way with a wide smile.

Well, the questions from the doctor would follow later, her expression told me she fully expected as much, but for the moment everything was in perfect order.

I faintly remembered having read about the Saunderson case while being abroad, but nothing definite came to mind. My three years of absence still haunted me.

I had almost been looking forward to having my wife with me today, but perhaps this was the better option. She should not run around all day long, and certainly not in this cold. 

When I arrived at the Bank of England I met with Gregson, who looked even more irked and tired than he had the previous day.

“Have you got some news for me, Mr Holmes?” he greeted me, reaching out his hand.

“None. I am about to speak to Sir Frederic if he is willing to see me – though he surely must be willing to see you.” I replied, smiling.

“He is not yet in. I have come here to report to him, but no-one as yet has seen him.” the official detective gritted his teeth. 

“Then I suggest we go to speak to Mr Barnicott first.”

And that we did. 

Mr John Barnicott was a middle-aged man, haggard and tired looking, creases of worry spreading across his forehead as he greeted us with a polite bow and a forced smile.

“I had quite a mind of engaging you myself, Mr Holmes. Not that we have much damage, the gold was insured after all and due to the contract, the sum will fall to us. But it is a very vexing business. How will the people trust us with their money if we have made such a blunder as to lose such an immense amount of gold – guarded by the police, even? No-no, this is most unfortunate.”

Gregson looked quite sheepish at this speech. Offering us a seat Barnicott rang a small silver bell on his desk and as if on queue one of his clerks appeared and was sent away with the order to bring in some tea. 

“I have two questions, Mr Barnicott. The first one being, who invested the gold? And the second, why was such an awkward route chosen?”

“That is the very thing, Mr Holmes, I cannot answer either of these questions. Not that I would not want to, but I simply don’t know the answer. The gold was to be transferred in the name of the Bank of England, who in turn acted for one of their clients, whose identity is unknown to me. It was also the Bank of England who gave the route. Personally, I would have preferred another time and another path, to be honest, but assumed they had their reasons to act this way. We are all men of honour and it is not good for business if one is too insistent on impugning each and every particular.”

“But I was told that the route was planned by both yourself and Sir Frederic,” Gregson chimed in.

“No, you have been misinformed. I was merely informed about it and agreed to have it done so. That was all.”

“Who was your main correspondence at the Bank of England?” I enquired. “Was it Sir Frederic himself?”

“No, it was a Mr Peabody, one of the senior clerks there, who acted for Sir Frederic.”

“Was there a particular reason why the police had been applied to guard the transport? For if as far as I know normally the banks make arrangements themselves.”

The man looked surprised and it was Gregson who answered my question: “apparently Sir Henry Simmons, who was applied to for advice, thought it to be safer.”

“Was there any particular reason he was asked in the first place?” I could not help asking thus.

“Apparently Sir Frederic and our chief are members of the same club and the latter owed the former a favour. You know how it is,” Tobias Gregson answered with a slight grimace showing his disdain for such practices. 

This information also showed, that there was at least one other person who had known about the transfer well before it had taken place. Interesting!

Sighing I leaned back in my chair, sipping on the tea that had been brought in in the meantime. A ‘normal’ robbery I had by then all but ruled out. There was too much that was off right from the start, and the deeper I dug, the clearer it became that the whole crime had been carefully planned right from the moment it had been decided that the money should be transferred to Barnicott and Harris, with poor Inspector Gregson being the intended scapegoat for not doing his job properly, when in fact he could not possibly have done so under these circumstances.

“I thank you very much, Mr Barnicott. You have helped us a great deal.” I, at last, said, getting up from my chair, eager to speak with Sir Frederic Belmont, who hopefully had arrived in his own bank by now.

Instead, we found Mr John Peabody, an astonishingly young man for such a senior position and not yet cursed with the habitual rounded shoulders and the short sight of a clerk. The contrary rather, as he was a rather handsome man with a surprisingly athletic built. He looked at us with some contempt but otherwise gave at least the appearance of wanting to help.

Yes, he had been the one closing the deal with Mr. Barnicott, but no, it had not been him who had planned the route to be taken, he had merely brought the papers over to Barnicott and Harris to be sanctioned and signed and that was that. 

He could also not tell us where to find Sir Frederic, who normally always came in at nine. 

“As a matter of fact, I am waiting for him, also,” he told us. 

By the way, he glanced at us I was quite sure that it was not him who waited for the director, but the client we desperately tried to make out. 

“Mr Peabody, could you please tell us, who had the money transferred? I mean the client the bank has been acting for.”

The clerk turned first pale than red but was adamant not to say anything, his eyes fixed on a point over my right shoulder. Turning around I was faced with a young and regal looking widow, wearing an arrogant expression on her lovely face which showed her character to be none too pleasant. 

“Lady Metcalf?” I enquired, remembering to have seen her in some photographs that had been published in the papers.

She did not reply and merely gave a curt nod in acquiescence of my recognition.

“I did not...” Peabody stammered.

She dismissed him with nothing but a wave of her hand before she turned to Gregson and me. I had heard rumours about her and more particularly her husband’s demise, though nothing could be proven. And since Lord Metcalf had died almost two years ago and at an age where death did not come as much of a surprise, no inquiry had been conducted.

“So you are now troubling yourself over this most unfortunate business,” she remarked, looking me over as if I were a beetle pinned to a board in some museum for display.

“It is no trouble, Madam,” I replied as suavely as I could, trying not to show my distrust. 

A man could easily be approached directly, while with women more caution was advisable and an indirect approach was usually the best. That the client was a lady, had come as a surprise. Then again, Lord and Lady Metcalf had had no children, making her the sole heiress. 

“I presume you are now wanting to stick your overly large nose into my affairs of business, Mr Holmes.”

Well, politeness was not her strong point it appeared. 

“Yes, exactly.”

“What is the point of it? The issue has been resolved as I got notice from the insurance that the money would be paid out to Barnicott and Harris and thus no harm is done, is there?” she asked offhandedly, about to turn around.

“The point is, that a crime has been committed and that the criminals have to be tried and punished accordingly. You might not have suffered a loss, but I dare say the insurance company would disagree with your statement that ‘no harm has been done’.”

“Why do men always have to act so incredibly honourable?” she sighed theatrically.

“Because if you cannot rely upon our honour we would be unable to do any business, Mylady.” Peabody, who had lingered behind, but out of sight of the lady, piped up.

“I thought I had made it clear that you could leave.” she snapped at him, angrily.

“You have, but I have a responsibility regarding this bank and one such is to watch any strangers to the establishment behaving themselves.” 

“Then I dare say you should check your own behaviour first, before that of any other person. So, Mr Holmes, have you found out something then?”

“Yes, I have.”

With an inquisitively raised eyebrow, she waited for me to continue, but I was in no mood to oblige her.

“Was there any particular reason, you wanted to invest at Barnicott and Harris’ Bank?” I instead asked, trying to sound as disinterested as possible. 

“It was recommended to me by a good friend.”

“The Bank of England has equally good opportunities, why not make use of them?”

“Because it is never wise to bet only on one horse, Mr Holmes.”

“But to bet gold amounting to the value of eighty thousand Pounds on an outsider?” I remarked with a slight disbelieving smirk.

“It is on the outsiders that one earns the most money with. I see you are not a betting man, Mr Holmes, otherwise, you would have known. The favourites are all nice and well and fairly sure to win, but the winnings are usually miserable.” she replied arrogantly. “But now, gentlemen, you will excuse me, for I have other appointments and cannot linger around in the hopes of Sir Frederic turning up eventually. Peabody, tell him I am very displeased at him for having me wait. By the way, I have always been curious, is it true what they say about men with large noses, Mr Holmes?”

At that, her eyes trailed down in an insinuating manner that almost had me blush. This last sentence I chose to ignore but the rest was quite an interesting statement. So, the lady liked to bet on horses, apparently. Well, that was an expensive hobby if one was prepared to bet on outsiders only for the thrill of it.


	53. A Needle in the Haystack - Part 5

A needle in a haystack - Part 5

Harriet:  
I dug through the papers Doctor Bell had given me, but just like him, I could not find anything that suggested Mr Saunderson had died from anything other than natural causes. At least not at first glance. I had made notes however and when I looked through them again, one thing struck me as odd. I reached for the other file which contained the police report and where the circumstances of how he had been found were written down and at last, I could not help but agree, that the Superintend had every reason to doubt the man’s death had been a natural one. 

As I finished my report the second body the doctor had spoken of was brought in. It had obviously been dragged out of the river, for the sheet covering it was frozen stiff after it had gotten wet and the two policemen who brought him in clearly belonged to the river squad. 

“What took you so long?” Bell asked the men carrying the plain wooden stretcher.

“He was literally wedged between a towed boat and the embankment, Sir, and we could not find the captain. Presumably sits piss drunk in the one or other tavern.” the man blushed slightly when his eyes fell on me.

“Well, well, put him over there, I am almost finished. Are you done, Doctor?” Bell had turned to me and I nodded.

“Good, why don’t you start with the external examination? There’s a leather apron hanging behind the door of my office.”

I went to get it and under the surprised glances of the two police constables pulled off the stiff sheet from the body they had just brought in. To my surprise, a stark naked man in his middling years was revealed.

“Do you know who he is?” I enquired, and the astonished men shook their heads in unison.

“Thank you,” I smiled, beginning with my work.

The body had obviously not been lying long in the water, and yet long enough to have completely cooled out. Yet aside from the rigor mortis there were no signs of decomposition, though considering the cold, that had not much to say. Long in the sense of something as eternal as death was a relative term after all. But in this instance, he certainly had gone into the water sometime during the winter and not when it was still warm.

He was a tall man, neither lean nor particularly chubby, but decidedly not in good shape. His muscles were rather on the weak than the strong side and his shoulders were rounded as if he had spent a considerable amount of time bend over a desk. A faint ink stain on his right thumb almost washed off by the Thames water and yet still distinct enough to see it clearly, also gave testimony to my assumptions as did the smoothness of his hands. His nose bore two slight indentations on either side, showing that the man had been in the habit of wearing a pince-nez. All in all, aside from that he wore no clothes, he gave the impression of an honourable member of society. His hair was closely cropped, his moustache and goatee carefully combed, while the rest of his face was cleanly shaven. However more I could not determine as his jaw was firmly locked in place for the time being and his eyes were frozen shut. 

With the help of Mr James, the assistant, I turned the body around to reveal the cause of death. A clean wound on his left side between his fourth and fifth ribs showed he had been stabbed in the heart from behind, presumably never seeing his assailant. At least nothing indicated he had been fighting the attacker off. There were no bruises on either his arms nor torso, aside from some scratch marks on his back. - But what I did find were some dark fibres in the wound indicating that he had been dressed when he was killed and only afterwards been stripped, presumably as to not give any hint about his identity. I made a mental note to check whether a sharp knife would drag the fibres so deep into a wound or if the murder weapon had rather been blunt. It would be an interesting study.

“Anything of any interest?” Doctor Bell asked me as he had at last finished with his first autopsy.

I told him of my findings, though not about what I had concluded so far. 

“Good, then I would say you are done for today, Doctor Holmes. I’ll see you on the morrow. This fellow first needs to thaw, I fear. I had no idea he had lain in the water.”

“When do you want me to come in?”

“Whenever you like. It’ll take some time till he’s defrosted.”

He did not need to add that technically I was not employed there.

I hung back the apron, put on my coat and went to the lower part of town to buy a few old scarves and a pair of woollen trousers at a dingy looking slop shop, and finding they had an array of thick blankets as well, I also got eight of them, one for each of Sherlock’s little street arabs. 

xxx

Sherlock:  
When after another half hour Sir Frederic had still not turned up, Gregson and I decided to pay him a visit at his house, which fortunately was situated in Kensington and so well within our way to Baker Street or respectively Clapham, where Gregson lived. But when we arrived there we found that the bank director wasn’t at home either and had not been the whole of last night. His wife, a plain little creature, appeared distraught and worried and I could not help wondering what had become of the man. Had he fled? Or had something happened to him because he knew too much? At this point, I could not possibly tell as both options were equally likely. 

Ever more sure that my theory had been right, but still unable to determine who was behind the crime I went to pick up Harriet, only to find that she had left a while ago. When I returned home, however, she was not there yet and I had an inkling to what she was up to. And sure enough, half an hour later my wife appeared laden with clothes for my troupe of irregulars.

“You just cannot help it, can you?” I smiled, taking some of the things from her.

“Can you?” she asked.

“No. I cannot quite help feeling responsible for their well being either,” I admitted. 

“Have you found out anything?”

“Not as much as I would have liked. But at least now I know who the mysterious client is – Lady Metcalf.”

“Well, that was unexpected,” Harriet remarked looking taken aback.

“Why, because a woman cannot possibly commit such a crime? Or have such a substantial amount of money at her disposal?” I teased.

“No, by no means. But honestly, I don’t like that woman. I had the displeasure of meeting her once several years ago when she was still Miss Marsh, oldest daughter of Lord Broughton. Dear me, what a piece of work!”

At that I had to laugh, admitting that I had not liked her either. 

“She is taking arrogance and rudeness to a whole new level,” I chuckled. “Though she admittedly is a very beautiful woman.”

“Yes, but then she opens her mouth,” Harriet agreed, adding thoughtfully: “But she has a knack of making men do whatever she wants from them.”

“Certainly not with me, my dear!”

My wife laughed, looking at me affectionately.

“No, not with Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

The doorbell rang and a moment later the Baker Street irregulars minus one assembled themselves in front of us. 

“I dunno where Peter is, but the rest of us have not found anything, Sir. Shall we continue with our search?” MacRae asked, shivering slightly from having been out in the cold all day long.

“Yes, please…” I was interrupted by yet another ring of the bell, which brought the missing boy, out of breath and decidedly excited.

“I’ve got it, Mr Holmes. I found the cart.”

All of us stared at him expectantly.

“You said you were looking for a cart from the City Police and I thought about where the best hiding place for a Black Maria would be and thought that if I had to hide one, I would do so at a police station. And sure enough, I found it at the police depot in Leadenhall Street and it got the right number. Funny no-one noticed.”

“That is because no-one has really been looking for it. Very well done, my boy! Very well done!” I cried out, paying each of the boys two more shillings and Peter double before I called for Tom to bring up the soup.

The eyes of the children lit up at the sight of the steaming hot food and without much ado, they depleted all that had been prepared. Well, growing boys were always hungry, if I remembered it correctly, and this bunch hardly ever got enough to fill their stomachs. After twenty minutes our dining table resembled a battlefield, but one look into their happy and content faces made up for that. 

As they piled out of the room again, Harriet handed each of them a blanket and those who had been lacking a shawl were handed one likewise while Peter also got a new pair of trousers – or rather a pair of trousers that were not threadbare. 

“We just have to be careful that we don’t make them dependent on us, my dear. We cannot save them all.”

“I know. I know, Sherlock, and it saddens me,” Harriet remarked and I could see that once more tears were threatening to come. 

Smiling I pulled her into my arms. 

“You know, my dear, you are beautiful inside and out, while Lady Metcalf’s beauty is only skin deep. And that is why I love you so much.”

Taking my face into her hands she pulled me down so she could kiss me, replying smiling that she loved me, too.

xxx

After our own dinner, I told Harriet about my conclusions and she listened interestedly and in complete silence until I had finished.

“It sounds the most probable, for sure,” she remarked when I had at last finished. “And I could certainly not put it past Lady Metcalf. Though dislike, in general, is not a good advisor – after all, I have been seriously mistaken in Charles Atwell and his father. I am still incredulous that the son, as little as I like him, is a truly honourable man, while the father was such a blackguard. But anyway, how are you going to prove it?”

“In confronting Sir Frederic, and by finding the money.”

“Why not this Peabody?”

“He is not missing. And that I currently find highly suspicious.”

“Sir Frederic Belmont is missing?” Harriet asked, her face all astonishment.

“Yes.” I was puzzled but then realised that I had only told Harriet that we could not get hold of him anywhere, not that he had not been seen since last night.

Something seemed to trouble her and after a few moments she asked: “Could you give me a description of Sir Frederic?”

I could not, as I had never met the man. 

“Would this Inspector Gregson know?”

“Yes, of course. - What are you up to?” this time it was on me to be astonished as I watched my wife open my desk drawer and pull out a telegram form.

“Leave a message for the inspector to have a look in the morgue at Scotland Yard. Today a man was brought in who might be your missing man.”

She recited her findings and I could not but agree with her. There was a good chance that it was the missing director who had made his way into the police morgue.

Putting on my coat I sent a telegram to both Gregson’s office and his home address before setting off towards Scotland Yard myself, Harriet by my side, even though she looked tired and worn once again. We spoke little on the way thither and even less while we waited for the inspector.

Walking over to the slab with the covered body on it, Harriet pulled aside the sheet and Gregson gasped.

“Bugger me! That indeed is Sir Frederic.”

At least that was settled. What was also settled was, that he had not done himself any harm, but that he had been murdered. 

“Well, this changes everything,” I remarked when we were back on our way home. “I think we have been taken in by a signature from a man who is used to signing a lot of papers over the course of the day, when in fact it has been someone else altogether who holds all the strings in hand.”

“Lady Metcalf?”

“Yes, but not on her own, my dear. You yourself said she has a knack of making men do whatever she wants.”

“The clerk?”

“No, he only did his job, nothing more.”

“Then who?” Harriet cried out impatiently and not with little exasperation.

I smiled pensively but did not reply. I did not dare do so unless I had definite proof and that as yet I was lacking. I needed to find the gold, but at least now I had a good idea as to where it might be – and it was not, other than I had first thought, back at the Bank of England.

Pulling a little face my wife looked at me and I was almost sure she would tell me once again how impossible I was, but instead, her face broke into a smile and she kissed me heartily.

xxx

When we arrived home we went straight to bed. Tomorrow would be a long day for me and I needed to be wide awake for what I had to do. But for tonight I was perfectly happy to be just a loving husband. The case was solved, but I still had to convict the man behind it all and that would be tricky. Very tricky!

“Do you know, what Lady Metcalf has asked me?” I mumbled as I made myself comfortable in bed next to my wife, meaning pulling her closer to me so I could hold her better.

“No.”

“She asked if there is truth in the assumption that men with large noses have also large, well you know what...”

“She didn’t!” Hattie turned around, her expression amused and at the same time incredulous.

“She did,” I affirmed.

“And what did you answer?”

“Nothing. I did not want to make her jealous as she would not get to see any of it. Ever!”

“You, Sherlock Holmes, can be very naughty at times! Poor woman, to leave her in the dark regarding you know what,” Harriet replied laughing, then whispered into my ear: “Especially as I think it might be true.”


	54. A Needle in the Haystack - Part 6

The needle in a haystack - Part 6

While Harriet got ready to go to Scotland Yard, I changed my own respectable self to a handyman, quickly drank a cup of coffee down in the kitchen for the sake of my wife and then left for the City, where later I would meet with Inspector Gregson. Again and again, I turned the facts over in my mind, but always coming to the same scandalous conclusion. I took the underground, changed trains at Oxford Circus and then went on to alight the train at St. Paul’s to walk up Wood Street from whence I turned into Love Lane. Finding No. 9 I had a good look around and found exactly what I have been searching for. The shute to the coal cellar had only recently been used and by something more bulky and heavy than loose coal. The snow which lay all around, blackened by the coal dust from the thousands of chimneys and fireplaces, had been pressed together and into an ice sheet, the scratches left by the crates clearly visible. Glancing around I found that from the street this place was well covered and most of the adjacent rooms were offices anyway and though occupied at this time of day there was little risk of me being seen sliding down the slope and prying open the simple wooden door at its bottom. Wedging my rugged looking scarf around the cast iron fence, so I could get back up, later on, I made my way down and opened the latch with which the door was fastened on the inside with the help of my old trusted penknife. There, well hidden from the main entrance to the coal cellar, half covered by the heaps of coal I found the crates, neatly stacked and otherwise untouched. Making use of my set of lock picks I managed to open one of them, finding it was as yet untouched and all the gold within. So far so good. 

I went back to Baker Street, changed to my more respectable self and took a Hansom towards the city, this time alighting at the City Polices headquarters in Wood Street, where I met with Inspector Gregson, who was impatiently pacing up and down the sidewalk, waiting for me. Admittedly, I was a good ten minutes late, but to wash off the coal dust from my face had been somewhat of a challenge as it seemed to stick to every pore.

“Holmes, I have just come from the Commissioner and he is not happy at all. Simmons gets impatient for us to solve this,” he said, without as much as greeting me, which showed just how wound up he was. 

“As a matter of fact, Gregson, I would like to speak to Commissioner Simmons myself. If you could lead me to him, please.” I replied, trying not to sound too nervous myself.

“Have you any news?” Gregson enquired curiously. “You cannot believe how shocked Simmons was to hear about Sir Frederic’s death. Now it is personal for him. I think I have told you already that they knew each other and...”

“Frequented the same club. Yes, you did. Yes, I have news. I have actually solved the mystery. But if the Commissioner will be any happier after I have spoken to him, I highly doubt.”

Lighting a cigarette I leaned against the door frame, in an attempt to calm my own nerves before the big finale.

xxx

Harriet:  
When I arrived at the autopsy room, Doctor Bell was already busy opening the body and quickly I reached for the leather apron behind the door again to have a closer look as to what was going on. Bell greeted me with a curt nod and pointed at a notepad and pencil at the foot end of the polished stone slab. 

“I had not expected you to be so early, Doctor Holmes,” he mumbled as he pulled aside the flaps of skin to reveal internal body cavities.

“Looks healthy.” I remarked, “Aside from perhaps the liver, which seems slightly enlarged.”

Chuckling Bell agreed.

“By the way, we know now who he is. I found a note lying on my desk this morning.”

“I know, I put it there,” I replied. “It is Sir Frederic Belmont. Director of the Bank of England.”

“I see you have been busy. Good.” 

“Yes, my husband remarked last evening that Sir Frederic had gone missing and this man seemed to fit the profile of a bank director quite well. We came here with Inspector Gregson, formerly member of the Metropolitan Police, now with the London City Police and he identified the man.” I explained.

“Ah, I remember Tobias Gregson. Good man that. Though never got along with our superintendent. Then again, he can be a piece of work. By the way, I looked through your report on the Saunderson-case. Well done, Doctor. Though I doubt Inspector Jones will appreciate it, that he has to start all over again. He’ll come down later.”

James sawed open the thorax and Bell began to take out the dead man’s inner organs, putting them down on a side table with a high rimmed steel top, making it look like some kind of macabre tea tray while the whole of the thorax cavity was filled with congealed blood.

Examining the heart Bell pointed at the right ventricle which had been distinctly pierced. It was not a big cut, but large enough to cause a fairly quick death.

“The wound looks quite clean, does it not?” I asked when Mr James had drained the blood from the body. 

“Yes, astonishingly neat in fact. It must have been a very sharp object.”

Reaching for the magnifying glass I bend over to have a closer look at the marks the blade had left on the ribs. Something struck me as odd and trying to picture what would be a normal angle at which a man would be stabbed I realised that the killer must have been left-handed. Then the piece of fibre I had found in the wound came to mind.

“Oh, that can happen quite easily even with a sharp knife,” Bell told me when I enquired whether there was a difference between sharp blades and blunt ones. “But I dare say it is a good indicator that the weapon had only one blade and not two.”

“So, no dagger,” I smiled grimly. 

“No, no dagger but a sharp knife. The back of the knife can easily drag in some fibre, while the blade end usually won’t. - Unless it is very blunt, of course. But in this instance, we have already established that that is not the case. Quite the contrary, actually. The edge is really incredibly smooth, it caused no noteworthy haematoma.” 

I finished my notes and send a message to Inspector Gregson’s office to inform him about our findings – and Sherlock as well. I had just finished, when a bulky man with almost no neck and a pudgy face entered the morgue, looking none too pleased.

“What is that, Doctor Bell, about this nonsense with the Saunderson-Case? I tell you, there was nothing fishy about it!” he growled.

“Well, as it is, Inspector Jones, your Superintendent as well as I and Doctor Holmes here are of a different opinion.”

“Who the deuce is Doctor Holmes?” here he glanced around, avoiding to look at me purposely. “Relation of Sherlock Holmes? Bloody know it all.”

“If I remember it correctly he has helped you out repeatedly,” Bell remarked with a grin. “And as for your other questions, this here is Doctor Harriet Holmes, or Mrs Sherlock Holmes, if you like.”

Inspector Jones stared at me aghast, then, at last, broke out in a broad grin: “Mrs Sherlock Holmes? Does that mean that eventually there will be another generation of Holmes’ to annoy the official police force? I am sorry for having been so rude, but our new superintendent has a way about him that does not exactly lift one's mood.”

“So I have heard. No offence taken,” I assured, reaching out my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

xxx

Sherlock:  
On our way to the Commissioner, a constable stopped us, waving a telegram.

“Urgent message for you, Sir,” he cried out as he hurried towards my companion.

“Well, I doubt this will help us. Apparently, Sir Frederic has been killed by a left-handed person,” Gregson remarked when he had read the note, handing it over to me.

There I disagreed with him. I found it highly valuable information, after all, the majority of the population was right handed and many more had been trained to be right handed, so knowing we had to look for a left-handed man was valuable information indeed.

xxx

“Enter!” A harsh voice sounded from within when we knocked on the Commissioner’s door. 

Simmons sat behind his desk, pen in hand as he wrote a letter. - His right hand.

“Ah, you again,” he said coldly when he saw Gregson, who visibly shrank back from the stony glare he was given. “And Mr Sherlock Holmes, I presume?”

I nodded in acquiescence.

“Well, I have told Inspector Gregson here already, that I am not very pleased about your involvement. It seems a bit silly for an inspector to ask for unofficial help, does it not?”

“Pardon me, but there I cannot agree,” I replied, looking around the spacious office with the well-polished furniture. “It is a sign of wisdom to know one's own limits after all.”

Simmons just huffed and carried on writing, before folding and sealing the note and ringing the bell for it to be delivered to its recipient. Carefully I watched the man and again found what I had been looking for and everything fell into place. I had my man!

“Personally I would also feel uncomfortable, if I lived with the knowledge of having committed a crime – or actually two.” I smiled grimly.

The commissioner threw down his pen, which he had picked up again, and jumped up from his chair, his cold eyes glaring at me.

“Be careful of what you are implying, Mr Holmes!” he all but snarled.

“I would not make such assumptions, if I were not absolutely certain, Sir Henry.” 

Gregson stared at both of us, open-mouthed, unable to believe what was going on. Poor man!

“One more word, and I have you removed from this building and send to prison, Mr Holmes.”

“On what grounds?” I enquired calmly, sitting down on one of the visitor’s chairs.

“Does it matter on what grounds? You come in here and make the most horrendous assumptions, slandering my name in front of one of my men, is that not grounds enough?” Simmons thundered.

“Hardly,” I replied suavely, leaning back and lighting another cigarette.

“Inspector, remove this individual from my office this instant!” he ordered Gregson.

But Tobias Gregson did not move, instead he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, blocking the single entrance to the commissioner’s office.

“I am sorry, Sir, but Mr Holmes is hardly ever wrong and thinking about it, it makes actually perfect sense. You alone, aside from Lady Metcalf, the two bank directors and the clerk Mr Peabody knew about the transport beforehand. It was you, who advised Sir Frederic which route to take and it would have been easy enough for you to organise an ambush for us. Knowing full well that we would have our hands full down St. Swithin’s Lane you could safely bring round the police cart, unload the crates and then have it driven back to the depot without any of us being the wiser.”

“You forget yourself!” Simmons cried out angrily, though the cold sweat on his forehead told me that he was beginning to lose his composure. 

“Hardly so,” I remarked. 

“Do you really think I would come round here and unload a cartload full of gold? And without anybody seeing me?”

“Of course not.” I agreed. “But you know, it is very unlucky that it is a well-known fact that as commissioner you inhabit a flat just down Love Lane. - I had the good fortune of once having been invited by your predecessor and he told me that it came with this post. You did not come here, but went there, took out the crates, together with your accomplice, whom I would almost assume was Lady Metcalf herself, she seems the type of person enjoying such kind of thrill, slid them down the coal chute and then returned the Black Maria to where it actually belongs – the depot.”

“And why would I do such a thing, Mr Holmes?” Simmons, at last, asked flatly.

“Ah, well, you, of course, would know best. But while I assume that the lady herself was convincing enough, the money was also quite tempting. How much did she promise you?”

“You cannot prove any of this!” 

“I can. The gold is still there and I would suggest, Gregson, you have a few men go and secure it, before word gets out and is removed. - Though considering the amount of gold, even that will take some time. The coal chute is quite slippery after all and steep.” 

“You broke into my house?!” Sir Henry groaned before burying his face in his hands. “I knew it was a bad idea. I told her so.”

“But you have been so bewitched by her Ladyship that you threw all caution to the wind.”

“Have you met her? She is an angel.”

“I have met her, but have to strongly disagree. Admittedly though, she is a very beautiful woman and she knows it and uses it to her advantage.”

“Yes.”

“I presume Sir Frederic found out about your machinations?”

“Yes, he confronted me about it and threatened to have me arrested. I had to act and the only way out at the time seemed to kill him.”

“Was it worth it?” I could not help asking.

“No. But Mr Holmes, have you ever been so besotted by a woman that you forgot all your principles?”

“While I have been besotted by a woman, and actually still am, no, I have never forgotten my principles over it, nor did I need to, as I had the good fortune to fall in love with an honourable woman with a good set of principles herself,” I answered, my thoughts straying towards my wife.

“Then you are a luckier man than I.” 

Slowly Simmons got up, his arms stretched out in front of him in a pleading gesture.

“Inspector, might I ask a favour? Could you escort me to the Yard, uncuffed and in a Hansom? I will not cause any trouble, I promise, but I cannot leave here with everybody watching.”

xxx

It was later in the evening that Gregson came round on his way home. He looked even more tired than he had when he had first applied for my help and exhaustedly he sat down on one of our chairs.

“How on earth did you know it was Simmons?” he asked.

“It is a maxim of mine that if you rule out all other options, that what is left must be the truth, Gregson. And in this case, I had ruled everyone out and the only persons left were Sir Henry and Lady Metcalf. Now the lady alone could not have managed such an undertaking, but the Commissioner could, hence he must have a hand in the crime. I then went to his house and found the gold, which I presume you have since retrieved.”

Gregson nodded.

“Then we received my wife’s note about the murderer being left-handed, and while Sir Henry wrote with his right, he was clearly left-handed, as he did everything else with his left.”

“I did not notice.”

“It almost escaped me as well,” I replied, watching my wife knitting while at the same time listening intently to what was being said.

“Was Lady Metcalf arrested likewise?” she, at last, enquired, preceding me as I had been about to ask the same question.

“No, he would not admit to her involvement and it will be very hard to prove it without his testimony. I fear she will get away.” the Inspector answered with a tired smile. “I still cannot believe it.”


End file.
